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From the collection of the 

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C A conscientious and intimate 
guide to 125 of the best and most 
interesting restaurants in and near 
New York, with pointed sugges- 
tions, necessary cautions, and some 
uncommon recipes. 

C Indicating the price range, 
who's who, what's what and how 
to get there. 

C Cross - indexed by localities, 
national origin, type of entertain- 
ment, etc. 

C And also a concise list of numer- 
ous additional restaurants. 




by Rian James 

and published by the 
John Day Company 
New York 



To Diane 

who accompanied me to every 
restaurant in this book . . 
and flayed safe by ordering 
Minute Steak in each 


"Rian James . . . born in Eagle Pass, Texas, October third, 
1899 ... his first newspaper job was writing a column for a 
Massachusetts weekly ... he was fired because he couldn't 
spell Massachusetts ... as aviator, advertising writer, soldier, 
reporter, war correspondent and feature syndicate salesman he 
has visited 31 countries ... he thinks that Paris would be 
the nicest city in the world if only so many people didn't 
speak French there ... he writes by lamp light on the 
brightest day and would rather walk a mile than use the tele- 
phone ... he never shaves in the morning because he doesn't 
get up that early . . . four years ago he made his twenty-sixth 
parachute jump because somebody told him that no one had 
ever made more than twenty-five safely ... he has never 
smoked a cigar, eaten spinach or worn spats ... he never for- 
gets a number, or remembers anything else ... he once won a 
bronco-busting contest at Madison Square Garden, and still 
claims that he spent the next four days in bed because he had 
a cold ... he has suffered broken ribs fourteen times doing 
stunts for the movies, and thinks there should be a law against 
everything that is against anything ... he prefers blondes, 
brunettes and red heads, alternately, and thinks that when 
greater comedians are made they'll all be named Fred Allen 
... his weaknesses are airplanes, Coca Colas with a dash of 
lime and head waiters named George ... he hates making 
speeches and when he has to always sends a last-minute tele- 
gram to the effect that he has just broken his leg ... his 
favorite author is Oscar Wilde and he would rather read 


poetry than write it ... he never attends a sad play . . . 
he gets seasick in anything smaller than the Leviathan ... he 
believes in the number 9 and would walk around the block 
rather than permit a black cat to cross his path ... he never 
appears after six in the evening without a walking stick and 
wouldn't be found dead with one before that ... he believes 
that slang is the shortest distance between two points and 
prefers playing 'postoffice' to bridge ... he likes going places 
and doing things and will risk his neck cheerfully if he can 
get a paragraph of copy out of it ... he notes most of his 
columnar material on the backs of menus and old envelopes, 
which he invariably loses ... he believes that soda mint tablets 
are good for everything but appendicitis ... he never carries 
a pencil and will walk out on a party rather than sit facing a 
mirror . . . he'd rather be gray at the temples than presi- 
dent . . . and he collects first editions, of which he has more 
than 2,000 . . . miniature elephants, of which he keeps more 
than thirty on his desk alone, and hotel keys ... his favorite 
hates are people who telephone in the morning, facetious radio 
announcers, and horses that come in fourth, fifth and sixth . . . 
he has never intentionally written anything to hurt anybody 
and he would rather have Bernard Shaw's sense of humor than 
Rockefeller's share of Socony ... his pet aversion is water- 
cress ... he believes that there are more morons writing movie 
captions than there are reading 'em ... he still can't spell 








INDEX 261 



Wherein the Author Discovers that 
There Actually Is a Reason for This Book 

When the gentleman with the brand new baggage labels, 
just back from "seeing the world in thirty-two days 
(Tour 737 B)," rolls his eyes regretfully and restores to 
circulation the old saw that begins: "Ah, in Paris, one 
really dines. In New York, one merely eats . . ." there 
are two things you can do. You can shoot him pro- 
vided it's within the proper season or you can write a 

Having allowed our big-game license to lapse, we 
elected to write a book. For, after all, one dines in New 
York too, if one is properly equipped with addresses. 
And if one doesn't eat quite as noisily in New York 
as in Paris, at least one need eat with no less gusto. For, 
in this man's town, noise is no yardstick to culinary 
appreciation. A single smack of the lips here brands 
you, not as a gourmet, but as a low-brow who ought 
to spend at least fifteen minutes a day in an easy chair 
with a copy of Emily Post. 

What we're driving at is that we don't want any of 
the visitors to run along home with the idea that New 
York, or its chief component part, Manhattan named 
by the Indians Manna-ha-ta, or Place of Drunkenness 


is simply a collection of B. & G. Sandwich Shops, Thomp- 
son One- Arm Cafeterias, Coffee Pots and Blue Kitchens! 
And what's more, we don't want you, who live right 
here in New York, to think it is either. 

For in this very same city, we've sat in a little East 
Indian restaurant and watched a long-haired Parsee 
waiter pour rose-leaf wine into a low, squat glass, while 
a native orchestra twanged its native Stein Song on huge, 
one-stringed instruments, and a tom-tom beat in soft 
staccato time. We've eaten Beluga Caviar to the ac- 
companiment of a Gypsy guitar in an East-side cellar, 
and in a forlorn brown-stone front we've looked on a 
large, swarthy Armenian feasting himself on shish-kebab 
and Takla-gam. 

We've eaten shrimps and pineapple in a tiny Chinese 
restaurant, while a Chinese boy read Keats aloud before 
an open fire-place; and in the very heart of the Theater 
Sector, we've had the tastiest Frijoles, Mexican Chili, 
and Hot Tamales to be had this side of Juarez, or San 
Anton', at least. 

We've wallowed in Swedish Smorgasbord, whole tables 
full of it, and washed it down with perfectly legal, 
wholly delightful native beer; and we defy you to find 
better Crepe Suzettes in all of France than you'll find 
right here in Greenwich Village! 

In the nooks and crannies of Manhattan we've eaten 
Clams Alcienne, Moule Mariniere and Bouillabaise yea, 
BOUILLABAISE, that Pruneier of Paris would smack 
his lips over; and we've eaten Sauerbraten and Kartoffel 
Kloesse, brought on by a waiter in short pants and a 
Tyrolean Hat, than which Bavaria boasts no better. 

We've drunk Tamarind, served by a cross-eyed Hindu 
waiter in a Fez. We've eaten genuine English sole from 
the skillet of a one-time Royal Chef, and Apfelstrudel, 
the like of which you won't come upon in all the length 
and breadth of Unter den Linden! 

We've eaten Chicken Paprika and Sauerkraut, with 
Mohn, in a little Czecho-Slovakian neighborhood Haus, 
and Goulash in a neighborhood where they've never even 
heard of a triple-decked toasted sandwich. And in the 
Rumanian- Jewish quarter we've had black radishes, 
smoked goose-liver, and gefiilte fish, while plump, 
bangled, gold-toothed ladies whirled in the intricacies 
of the Kazatzka. 

We've eaten dried, raw herring in a tiny replica of 
Scandinavia; we've reveled in Scallopini, Zuccini and 
Zabaglioni in Manhattan's Little Italy, and found the 
tentacles of the Octopus both tidy and tasty in the Span- 
ish Quarter. 


We've watched a soft-footed Japanese cook beef suki- 
yaki to order, at our very table; and the Rae et Burr 
Noir that you raved about in Paris, abounds in Man- 
hattan's scattered Little France. We've eaten hundred- 
year-old Edam Cheese and heavenly cheese pie in the 
shadow of New York's most formidable sky-scraper, 
Arroz con Polio in Greenwich Village, and curries that 
are hotter than a Sophie Tucker finale, in a restaurant 
owned by an Australian and run by a former Ambas- 

In short, we've eaten food in the Syrian, the Dutch, 
the Italian and the Mongolian manner; drunk the wines 
of the Serbs, the Parsees and the French, to name only 
a few, and when we stop to think that New York is 
daily being judged by the Automats and the Self-Service 
Cafeterias which raise their efficient, albeit non-epicurean 
heads nine to the block, we could break right down and 
cry on a policeman. As a matter of fact, that's just 
what we did, only it wasn't on a policeman, but on a 
waiter. It was in the midst of one of these weeping 
spells that we thought of this book. And there you are. 

And before we forget, we have made no attempt what- 
ever to include all the restaurants of New York, but 
merely those which, by reason of superior cuisine, enter- 
tainment, or atmosphere, stand out high, wide and 

And by the by, do have the nicest sort of time. 


Rian (Bicarbonate) James 

P.S. A gentleman, with a mathematical mind, having 
had nothing better to do for the last four successive 
Fridays, tells us that there are 18,763 restaurants in 
Manhattan alone, which still leaves all of Brooklyn, 
Queens, Richmond and the Bronx for him to play around 
with, and this doesn't include the S. & J.'s, the Meal-A- 
Minute's, The Coffee Pots, the C. & Q.'s, and their affili- 
ated filling stations either. You'll find these capably 
handled in the Telephone Book. 



You're going places! You've phoned downstairs for a 
taxi. Your Aunt Martha, from Salem, has just remarked 
for the seventh time that it's gotten a good bit cooler. 
Your Uncle Henry is torn between remembering his 
etiquette and the desire to ask when do we eat. It's 
that fateful hour between the office curfew and the eve- 
ning meal already past the one, and still too early for 
the other. And what do you do? Do you chew your 
fingernails and get out the family album? Do you chit- 
ter nervously and wish you had a Murad? Not if you're 
a modern-day hostess you don't. 

You ignore Aunt Martha's remarks anent the weather 
entirely. And as for Uncle Henry's appetite well, 
he can just go bite a piece out of the Modernage Divan 
for all of you. You simply saunter nonchalantly into 
your kitchenette; you browse contemplatively among 
your shelves of best cellars; you take down a bottle of 
this and a wee drappy o' that. In a few short moments 
there's a friendly tinkle of cracked ice being bounced 
around in a shaker; a delicate aroma of something cold, 
and wet, and good. Your Aunt Martha forgets whether 
it's Friday or Fahrenheit; your Uncle Henry's face lights 
up like Main Street on Saturday night. 

The Party has been saved. (If it hasn't then the 
following will save it!) 

ORGEAT COCKTAIL: To one jigger of Gordon Gin, add 
one-half a lemon, the white of one egg, and one tea- 
spoonful of Orgeat. . . . From here on there's nothing 
left to do but ice, shake and serve. At least there are no 
written instructions necessary. The procedure from this 
point will come natural. 

ORCHID VERDI: One-half grape juice, one-half Creme de 
Menthe, small piece of ice (in the drink). It's your 

SILVER FIZZ: One part Gordon Gin, the white of one egg, 
one-half teaspoonful of powdered sugar (or, to taste), 
cracked ice, and fill with seltzer. Serve in tall glass. 
A GOLDEN FIZZ is made the same way, substituting the 
yolk of egg for the egg white. Grand for warm weather. 

CLOVER CLUB: To one-third Gordon Water, add one-sixth 
of Italian Vermouth, a teaspoonful of raspberry syrup 
or Grenadine, the juice of a small lime or half a lemon, 
and the white of one egg. Pour into shaker with plenty 
of cracked ice ... and let nature take its course. 

THE TEXAN: Grand for high temperatures and low spirits. 
Use a claret glass. To one iigger of Gordon Gin, add 
the white of one egg, the juice of half a lemon, and 
powdered sugar to taste. Serve with cubed fruit in 

SHOCK ABSORBER: To two- thirds Rye, add one- third cold 
coffee and the white of one egg. Pour into shaker with 
cracked ice. Shake well, and remember that three Shock 
Absorbers are a crowd! 


THE OLD MASTER: To one jigger of Bacardi, add a jigger 
of grapefruit juice, one-half a small lime, and a dash of 
Apricot Brandy. Aunt Martha ought to love this. 

THE NINETEENTH HOLE: To one-third Burroughs Gin, 
add one-third Italian Vermouth, one-third French Ver- 
mouth, and squeeze an orange peel into the result. Ice, 
shake well and serve. 

THE SPECIAL: Half fill shaker with chipped ice; to one-half 
wine-glass of Gordon Gin add three drops Angostura 
Bitters, one-half teaspoonful of Orange Bitters, and three 
drops of Grenadine. Serve cold as a landlord's heart. 

THE WHOOPEE: To one- third Applejack, add one-third 
Gin, one-sixth part lemon juice, and one-sixth liquid 
honey. Add plenty of cracked ice, shake enthusiastically. 

THE LADY CORDAY: And grand, too! To two-thirds 
Gin, add one-third vanilla ice cream and one teaspoonful 
of Grenadine. Shake thoroughly in shaker, without ice, 
until ice cream becomes liquid. Serve in thin glass. And 
maybe the ladies won't go for this one! 

Gin, add three teaspoonfuls of Curacao (or Benedictine), 
one-half teaspoonful of Angostura Bitters, one-half tea- 
spoonful of lime juice, and two teaspoonfuls of sugar. 

THE MARTINI: Into a shaker half-filled with cracked ice, 
pour two-thirds of a wine-glass of Gordon Gin, one-half 
wine-glass Italian Vermouth, and add a dash of Orange 
Bitters. Shake well, and serve with a piece of orange 
peel or an olive, to each glass. Or an old Milwaukee 
trick a large half -pecan, or walnut. 

THE LAST RESORT: (Everyone has the ingredients of this 
one!) To one part Gin add one part grapefruit juice, one 
part orange juice, and one teaspoonful of Grenadine. Roll 
cocktail glass in granulated sugar and serve cold. You 
lick the outside and drink the contents, which is a novel 
way to kill a rainy afternoon. 

THE SUBWAY: To one-third Gin, add one-third Vichy, 
one-sixth part Italian Vermouth and a dash each of lime 
and lemon juice. Add cracked ice to fill shaker; shake 
till frosted . . . and hey! hey! 

THE PINK 'UN: To three quarts of a jigger of Bacardi 
(pronounced Backardi by the family it gets its name 
from) add one-half a jigger of lemon or lime juice, a 
third jigger of Grenadine and to make matters worse, 
just a short dash of Absinthe. Add cracked ice, shake 
well, and don't serve till it is thoroughly and poetically 

THE ALEXANDER: To one-third Brandy, add one-third 
Creme de Cacao and one-third fresh cream. Shake 
well and strain into cocktail glass. Write your name on 
your cuff, and serve when thoroughly chilled. 

THE BACARDI: To one-third Burrough's Gin, add two- 
thirds Bacardi Rum, the juice of half a lime, and one 
teaspoonful of Grenadine . . . which is just the way they 
build them at Harry's Bar, in Paris! 

THE KITCHENETTE: To one-third Gin, add one-third 
grapefruit juice, one-sixth pineapple juice (from your 
nearest delicatessen dealer), and the white of one egg. 
Shake well, and serve, with a cube of pineapple per 

u * 

SONNY BOY: To two and a half parts Gin, add two parts 
Cointreau, two parts French Vermouth and two parts 
Italian Vermouth. Ice, shake till your arm aches, choose 
your nearest exit, and serve. 

THE OLD ENGLISH: To one glass of Brandy, add two tea- 
spoonfuls of Gomme Syrup, and a dash of Angostura Bit- 
ters. Two dashes of Angostura won't hurt the drink, or 
your guests either. 

THE BRONX: To one-third Gin, add one-third French Ver- 
mouth, one-third Italian Vermouth, and the juice of a 
quarter of an orange. Ice, shake well, and don't say 
we didn't warn you. 

THE BUNNY HUG: To one-third Gin, add one-third Scotch 
Whisky, and one-third Absinthe (Anisette or Pernod will 
do). After that, nothing matters. Ice, shake well, and 

THE BIDE- A -WEE: To one pint of Port Wine (see your 
Italian green-grocer) add one-half pint of Rye Whisky. 
Place in refrigerator while pitting enough olives to garnish 
twelve drinks. Cube enough ice for ditto, and serve in 
four-ounce glasses. 

THE CONTINENTAL: Into a sugar-dipped Champagne 
coupe, half -filled with shaved ice, pour a jigger of 
cognac; fill to the brim with Champagne. If you con- 
template more than one serving of these see to it that 
someone present has your address. However, with Cham- 
pagne what it is these days, one is the financial equivalent 
of a flock! 

THE SIDE CAR: To one-third Brandy, add one-third Coin- 
treau, and one- third lemon juice . . . and imbibe sitting 


WHISKY SOUR: To one jigger of Scotch Whisky, add the 
juice of half a lemon, one teaspoonful of granulated sugar 
and a twist of lemon peel. This is not the drink to start 
a gay party off with. 

OLD-FASHIONED COCKTAIL: To one glass of Canadian 
Club Whisky, add four dashes of Angostura Bitters, one 
lump of ice, one tablespoonful of granulated sugar, and 
stir until sugar is dissolved. Serve with a strip of fresh 
pineapple, a slice of orange, and Maraschino cherry. 

THE THREE MILE LIMIT: To two-thirds Brandy, add one- 
third Bacardi Rum, one teaspoonful of Grenadine, and a 
dash of lemon juice. Even a little child could tell you this 

THE SWISSESS: To one glass of Absinthe, add one teaspoon- 
ful of Anisette Syrup, and the white of one egg. Shake 
well together, strain into a small wine-glass, add a dash 
of seltzer, and serve. It makes a grand tomorrow morn- 
ing pick-me-up. 


THE BROMO SELTZER: Into a large tumbler put one 
tablespoonful of Bromo Seltzer (procurable at your 
nearest razor-blade-and-dollar-book store) : fill tumbler 
with soda, then pour into another tumbler. Repeat this 
twice, and rapidly, until powder is dissolved, and drink 
while fizzing. You won't like it, but at least it won't 
give you a headache! 


(BiitNot Where!) 

A gentleman recently came down from the comfort- 
able fastnesses of his beloved Kentucky Hills and was 
downright mortified to learn from the town barber 
the local human Tabloid that there had been a war. 

What we're driving at is that it takes time for news 
to get around and the worse the news is, the longer it 
takes. Consequently, with eleven million restaurants in 
New York maybe there aren't eleven million; maybe 
there aren't seven million; anyway, there are a whole slew 
of them, and we're not going to be turning back to our 
foreword every time, just for the sake of getting a few 
figures in their proper order anyway, with that many 
restaurants in New York, it is conceivable that all of 
them couldn't possibly have heard of prohibition, as yet. 
Mind you, we aren't saying that they haven't, but 
merely that it is conceivable that they haven't, and a 
very pretty thought that is, too. To that end, then, and 
because we have the kind of a memory that lapses every 
time it sees a policeman, we can't help you a lot. About 
the best we can do is to tell you to ask around in the 
places that you visit. You may meet with a plenitude 
of rebuffs, but you'll also probably run into a goodly 
number of assorted liquors! 


We have included in this book none of the places where 
you are required to speak softly, or to knock three times 
and tell them Horace sent you, or to walk up two 
flights and ask for Tony. We have merely supplied you 
with a fair number of restaurants, cautioning you that 
it is conceivable just conceivable, remember that 
somehow, somewhere, there might be a little Vina Rossa. 

Hence, and proceeding on the theory that Vina Rossa 
isn't exactly your idea of an epicurean orgy, we have 
appended a few paragraphs for the benefit of those who 
may know exactly what they want, but not exactly when 
they ought to have it. 

For there is a place for each and every vintage. (Al- 
ways excepting the most recent Constitutional Amend- 
ment, in which wine most definitely has no place). 
Merely to order wine with your dinner is akin to ordering 
a dress for your wife. It may be done, but you couldn't 
possibly expect the best results! Certain wines go with 
certain courses as happily, as invariably, as Amos goes 
with Andy. But what to order with what? Ah, that's 
where we come in. 


Select a white wine always. A connoisseur will tell you 
that there is no other choice. And there are many from 
which to choose. For instance: 

Pouilly and Chablis (Fairly dry, thin, sweet) 

Graves (Which has more body) 

Maconnais (Extremely light) 

Vouvray \ 

Touraine V Fairly sweet, fruity, and dry) 

Saumur ) 

Sauternes (Light and sweet) 

Meersault (Extra dry) 

Chateau Yquem (Heavy, and especially sweet) 

Chablis, Vouvray, and Sauternes are the least expensive 
of the most palatable white wines; Meersault and Chateau 
Yquem, the most expensive. 


With meats that are grilled, broiled or roasted, a good 
red wine is advisable; either a Bordeaux or a Burgundy. 

Burgundies 1915 



(More body) 
(Light and fruity) 

>( Fruity, slightly tart, with 
more body to them.) 

(A generous, heavy wine) 
(A light, fruity Burgundy) 

(Excellent, unless too recently 

(Strong, with more body) 

With GAME 

Also, with meats of high or pronounced flavor, a high- 
grade Burgundy is desirable, and such wines as Musigny, 
Clos-Vougeot, Romance, or Richebourg are recommended. 


There is no substitute for a fine old Burgundy. 


Enter here the Champagne and see that it's not too 
new, for the newer, the more gaseous. A good Cham- 
pagne needs no stirring stick! 

Remember too, that all white wines should be drunk 
cold well iced, but never with ice; that Bourgognes, 
Burgundies and Bordeaux wines should be drunk at room 
temperature (actually, they should be brought to your 
table directly from the wine-cellar, which is kept con- 
siderably below room temperature) ; that Champagne 
should only be drunk out of the thinnest of glasses; and 
that the thinner the wine glass generally, the more en- 
joyable its contents! 

At a simple dinner or at one of these let's-get-in- 
before-the-curtain-rises dinners you may prefer only 
a single wine. (Always provided you can get any at 
all.) In this case, you will likely choose a white wine, 
which is invariably less heady, or, at the worst, an Italian 
Vina Rossa the imported, if you have any luck. Oddly 
enough, the cheaper the wine the greater the alcoholic 
content which is where you want to keep an eye on 
Aunt Martha. Suggested, then, for single-wine dinners: 
Vouvray, Anjou or white Bordeaux (all inexpensive) ; 
Vin Rose, Chianti, Riidesheimer, Roebling, or and you 
may grow to like it Vina Rossa. There! Now we've 
told you practically everything. 




The Dining-Hall of Fame! 

Moule Mariniere! "Mussels?" you exclaim, curling 
your upper lip. "Mussels!" say we, and our palate does 
an anticipatory back-flip. Mussels, to be sure mussels 
with sauce Mariniere, redolent with white wine, pure 
cream, and only Henry, the chef Henry, whose face 
is as immobile as a tree, and just as lined can tell you 
what else. 

Moule Mariniere: served so palatably that you find 
yourself eating the remaining sauce with a tablespoon, 
after the last mussel has gone from the plate. 

Sardi's, although an Italian-American restaurant, 
quietly specializes in the three sea-food dishes that made 
the fame of Pruneier's of Paris; to wit, Moule Mariniere, 
Bouillabaise, and Filet of Sole Bon Femme. 

This is Mario a headwaiter who never forgets a 
face, a name or an occupation who greets you as you 
enter Sardi's, who later bends over you, as you study 
the caricatures of theater and newspaper personages that 
ring the walls, and whispers, "Don't look now but that 
gentleman with the red tie that's Ronald Colman." 

And if the restaurant is Sardi's, and the headwaiter is 
Mario, you can rest assured it is Ronald Colman and he 


is wearing a red tie. For Sardi's, aside from being the 
home of extraordinarily good food, is also the Mecca 
for theatrical and newspaper New York. There you'll 
find Texan Guinan rubbing shoulders with Greta Garbo; 
Lillian Roth talking shop with Maurice Chevalier when 
he jumps into town; Daniel Frohman and Daniel Froh- 
man's five-inch collar; Harry Hershfield, creator of the 
famous Abie The Agent comic strip, and the lovely, 
titian Diane Corday. 

There you'll find the Broadway columnists Louis 
Sobol, Walter Winchell, and Sidney Skolsky; the dra- 
matic critics: Robert Garland of the Telegram; Percy 
Hammond of the Herald Tribune; Robert Benchley of 
the New Yorker; Gilbert Gabriel of the American; John 
Anderson of the Evening Journal, Julius Cohen of the 
Journal of Commerce. Nor is that all. For Sardi's is 
the favorite and the favored rendezvous of the majority 
of those ladies and gentlemen who make Broadway, and 
whom Broadway, in turn, has made. 

Fae Drake, the casting agent; Dorothy Appleby; Max 
Lief, who authored "Hangover"; his brother, Dr. Nat 
Lief, the gentleman who has acquired renown both as a 
lyricist and as a dentist; C. P. Greneker, chief of the 
Shubert Publicity Staff; Joe Cook and Ted Healy, the 
Comics; Frank Fay, and his wife, Barbara Stanwyck; 
Clifton Webb, and Libby Holman; Rudy Vallee, the 
Astaires; Morris Gest; Rowland Field* of the Brooklyn 
Times; Arthur Pollock of the Brooklyn Eagle; Ward 
Morehouse of the Sun and even then we've done no 
more than skim the surface. For Sardi's is truly the 
headquarters for everyone, who is anyone, on Broadway. 

There, to add a few, you'll find Alice Boulden, the 
songstress; Katherine Cornell; Robert (Believe It Or 


Not) Ripley; Kelcey Allen of Women's Wear, Dean of 
Dramatic Critics; Russel Grouse of the Post; Lenore 
Ulric; Marcus Griffin of the Enquirer; and so many 
more that the very numbers, to say nothing of the bril- 
liance of the names, would make you gasp. It is at 
Sardi's, too, that Renee Carroll, the world's most famous 
hat-check girl, relieves you of your wraps and, if you're 
a celebrity, remembers which belongs to who, without 
any recourse to a check. 

Getting back to our celebrities, in the event that you 
don't believe that they actually foregather at Sardi's, 
Mr. Vincent Sardi, himself, will proudly point to the 
caricatures by the adept Gard, himself a Sardi character, 
of the aforementioned celebrities autographed carica- 
tures which now line the walls of Sardi's, in some cases, 
two deep! 

Late luncheon is the time to visit Sardi's, albeit celebri- 
ties are to be found there for both luncheon and dinner. 
It is at lunch-time, however, when a greater number of 
celebrities appear to crawl out of their shells and come 
out in the open for a little nourishment. And some of 
them nay, many of them sit haughtily under their 
own portraits, and bask thus happily in the limelight. 
Some of them, too, depart in a huff believe it or not 
if the comfortable wall-seat under their portraits should 
happen, for the nonce, to be taken. 

Sardi serves good Italian food, excellent French food, 
desirable American food, and an amazingly inexpensive 
Blue Plate in which your coffee and dessert are included. 
In the summer, Mr. Sardi opens his Canopy Room, up one 
flight, where you dine as in a circus tent a very, very 
tidy circus tent, however and there, too, he offers you 
a table d'hote dinner that is remarkably good. 


Sardi's Italian-American 

234 West 44th Street 

Table d'hote luncheon, $.90; dinner, $1.50. Excellent 
Blue Plates at $1.2 5 

Open from 10 A.M. to 3 A. M. 

Maitre d'hotel: Mario, aided and abetted by the genial 
proprietor, Mr. Vincent Sardi himself, and by two waiters, 
named Carlo and Frank, respectively, who are the last 


Don't Look Now! 

When Sardi's was but a tiny restaurant in a cellar, the 
Algonquin Hotel Dining Room, habitat of the intelli- 
gentsia, the literati, and the literotics of the town, was 
already celebrating its heyday in who's-whodom. That 
large, lumbering gentleman in last week's suit was Hey- 
wood Broun, of course; the smaller fellow, with just the 
most embryonic sort of mustache, was Franklin P. 
Adams, the F. P. A. of the Morning World; that other 
plumpster would be Frank Sullivan, the humorist; that 
bald fellow, Marc Connelly, the playwright. There, 
at the Algonquin Round Table, the celebrities of the 
town would gather over an excellent Algonquin Dutch 
Dinner, or a light salad of Tokay grapes, with pecans 
and cream cheese, or a generous cup of Frank Case's very 
best coffee, and disport among themselves during a full 
two-hour luncheon. 

Around them, steaks would grow cold, pastries would 


be left untouched, coffee would wax muggy, and the 
obsequious George would tip-toe hither and about, nod- 
ding knowingly to wide-eyed and thrilled readers of 
Mister Broun, of F. P. A., of Mister Frank Sullivan, and 
of Mister Russel Grouse putting one finger ever to his 
lips, and whispering cautiously: "uh huh that's so-and- 
so but don't look now!" 

Times have changed, if the Algonquin hasn't, and 
the present Round Table is a mere shadow of its former 
self. Actors have replaced writers; near-actors have re- 
placed actors; and while you are as certain to find celebri- 
ties there now, as ever, you won't find the same ones 
or so many! 

Nevertheless, the famed Rose Room of the Algonquin 
has changed but little; if the bulking figure of Hey wood 
Broun is seen less frequently, the longer, slimmer form 
of the irrepressible Julius Tannen is seen more often. 
The original George is no longer there, but another 
George is on the job, more polite and bending than his 
predecessor (one of the first essentials, evidently, in be- 
coming a successful captain, is to be named George) ; and 
on the whole, the room seems to offer a less clannish, a 
more friendly atmosphere. 

The Blue Plate dinners are delicious, and generous 
to a fault; the Tokay grape salad still continues the 
best warm- weather bet in the town; the lemon layer 
cake is something to travel miles for; and we defy you to 
find better blueberry or cherry cobbler in the land. In 
short, the food at the Algonquin is what it always was; 
the service more fleet than ever (excepting when it 
comes to getting your check, which, following the truly 
continental rule, takes weeks) ; and the hat-check gentle- 
man still manages to remember you without giving you 


a check, albeit he has now gone in for pince nez glasses. 
We recommend the Algonquin to you, particularly for 
luncheon, but you'll like it there for dinner, too. 

The Algonquin Hotel Rose Room Franco- American 
59 West 44th Street 

Open for luncheon and dinner, and for after-theater 
supper in the Oak Room 

No table d'hote; a la carte prices are average 
Maitre d y hotel: George 


The Miracle of Sheridan Square 

The Greenwich Village Inn, high spot in a colony that is 
full of high spots, was already countless years old when, 
in the fall of 1929, dread fire swooped down, flames spit 
and sputtered, and the landmark of adventuresome ladies 
from Dubuque was no more. And then, a battery of 
workmen set upon the ruins. A young artist, Thomas 
Hunt, pupil of Mrs. Harry Payne Whitney, and one-time 
assistant of Joseph Urban, came along and was struck 
with the possibilities of the place. He went to work 
with pencil, paper and precision, and a brand new Green- 
wich Village Inn emerged a study in impressionism, 
cubism, modernism; a symphony in silver and black 
ceilings, scintillating mirrors, pastel lights, massive murals 
a Greenwich Village Inn that is destined to remain a 
high spot. 


Park Avenue boasts nothing more elaborately, glit- 
teringly amazing; Broadway offers nothing so esthetically 
bizarre. The Greenwich Village Inn, in short, is breath- 
taking. You enter through a modernistic foyer, follow 
the omnipresent Henry spelled with a "y" if you please 
up a short, carpeted flight of stairs, and find yourself 
at once blinking, breathless, and quite lost. For the wily 
Thomas Hunt has achieved, by the deft placement of 
modernistic mirrors, an impression of spaciousness that 
is not there. And yet, for all the effect of spaciousness, 
there is something actually cozy about the Inn, although 
you'll not experience that feeling of cozy warmth until, 
settled at a comfortable wall table, you blink your eyes 
a bit and let the pulsating panorama seep in, a little at 
a time. 

Then you'll note the lights, ever-changing in color, 
that glow warmly from under tiers of what might well 
be frosted glass ruffles; and the two, flawless, roomy 
dance-floors, placed so that one orchestra is quite equal to 
its two-fold job. It is then that you'll catch your breath, 
and reflect in amazement that there's never been any- 
thing quite like the Greenwich Village Inn before and 
there hasn't really. 

It is then too, that you'll get to the business that 
brought you. For the Inn isn't merely a place to drop 
in on for a whirl to music, but a first-rate place in which 
to eat. And you might take a tip from us on the follow- 
ing subject too, while we think of it. If you're planning 
on dining here, remember this: the nearer you sit to the 
stairway, the hotter your dinner will be, because the food 
that comes from the Inn's Kitchen steaming hot, loses 
considerable of its temperature in the trip from the 
kitchen to the far end of the room. 


There is a two-dollar dinner, and a dollar-fifty dinner, 
both of which are adequate, if not wholly the best you've 
ever had. Also, what with dancing between courses, 
you'll probably be less fussy about your food than you 
would be if food alone brought you to the Inn. Never- 
theless, the food is good, the portions are plentiful, and, 
judging by the a la carte menu, the variety is great. Sun- 
day nights are important nights at the Greenwich Village 
Inn important, because Sunday nights are guest nights, 
meaning that plenty of theatrical bigwigs are invariably 
on hand to see, as well as to be seen. You needn't dress 
when going to the Inn, although you'll find that plenty 
of its patrons do. But you should make it a point to 
drop in for a visit. There's no other place quite like 
it in all New York. 

The Greenwich Village Inn is at Number Five Sheri- 
dan Square, and you can reach it comfortably by taking 
a taxi-cab, or a West Side Subway to Sheridan Square. 
Any other route is, of necessity, heaps more complicated. 
But that is entirely your department, only don't say you 
haven't been warned. 

The Greenwich Village Inn American 

5 Sheridan Square 

$1.50 and #2.00 table d'hote dinners 

Open for luncheon, dinner, and after-theater supper 


Cover charge after 9.30 P. M., week-days, $.75; Sat., 
Sun. and Holidays, $1.00 

Maitre d'hotel: Henry 



Purveyor to Park Avenue 

If the thought of a kitchen without a solitary can-opener 
isn't too much for you, in an age when everything from 
last August's green peas to next Sunday's dinner comes 
done up compactly in tins, you will find Longchamps 
restaurant a back-to-the-farm movement in itself; a 
back-to-nature adventure that a city-dweller, who has 
never seen a stalk of asparagus, except one that conies 
out of a can, will hardly appreciate. 

For when Longchamps tell you that their vegetables 
are fresh, they mean fresh in the present, original state. 
At Longchamps your green peas have none of the pre- 
servers' pallor; your lima beans are genuinely country- 
bred; your artichokes spring from soil to salad plate and 
your Brussels sprouts of the evening are damp with this 
morning's dew. 

Here then is a restaurant where foods, in their natural 
state, have been side-tracked neither by packer nor profi- 
teer; where fresh vegetables are made even more de- 
lightful by the manipulation of a skilled chef; where an 
alligator pear is a delectable dainty, not at all reminiscent 
of Castile soap; where the deviled stuffed lobster, the 
Broccoli Hollandaise, and the Potatoes Longchamps are 
concoctions in the highest culinary art! 

Nowhere in New York is food any finer, or more ex- 
pertly prepared; nowhere is service swifter, or more 
courteous; nowhere is the atmosphere any more remi- 
niscent of Armenonville or the Continental Hotel in 
Paris. And, following the custom that, unless our mem- 


ory fails us, was originated by Pruneier, also of Paris, 
tipping is a verboten luxury at Longchamps. Here you 
tip not, nor do you regret it. Instead, the management 
assesses you a surcharge of ten percent for Monsieur le 
servitor a smaller sum, likely, than an average Long- 
champs meal would incline you to bestow upon the man 
who serves you food like this and that is that. 

Little wonder, then, that Longchamps is a happy haven 
for Eddie Cantor, whose culinary judgment is as keen as 
his judgment of a song; for Billie Burke, the lovely 
wife of Florenz Ziegfeld; for Gene Tunney, the one- 
time prize-fighter; and for Park Avenue in general. 

The specialties at Longchamps are the fresh vegetables 
and the incomparable pastries (made on the premises by 
the Longchamps pastry chef, and put up in little boxes 
of twelve, if you'd like to treat the stay-at-homes) . 

The outstanding thing about Longchamps is that an 
astute management, starting with one restaurant, has been 
able to open five additional ones, and has been able to 
make one as like the other as if all six were one! 

Longchamps French (Premiere Classe) 

19 West 57th Street 

A la carte only. Two can eat for about $5.00 
Open from 7 A. M. until 11 P.M. 
Maitre d f hotel: Max Winkler 

There are other Longchamps Restaurants at 55 fifth 
Avenue; 423 Madison Avenue; 40 East 49 th Street; 
1015 Madison Avenue; 23 West 58th Street 



Pigs-Feet) Perfume, and Pastrami 

Reuben's restaurant (the advertisements will tell you it 
grew from a sandwich to an institution) laid its founda- 
tion the night that Arnold Reuben, proprietor of a tiny, 
uptown delicatessen store, got a telephone order to de- 
liver half a dozen Pastrami sandwiches to an after- 
theater party! That gave him an idea. He took off his 
white apron, came around in front of his delicatessen 
counter, carted a dozen cases of canned-goods into a 
back room, and set up two lonesome little tables. 

Then he set out a sign telling the world that Reuben's 
was a first-class place to drop in for that after-theater 
sandwich. And miracle of miracles straightway the 
uppercrust of Broadway proceeded to drop in! The 
uptown Reuben's expanded. Arnold Reuben put his 
profits back into the soil, and gave New York a mid- 
town Reuben's. He named sandwiches after each Thes- 
pian Visitor; inaugurated a Celebrity Register; tripled his 
prices, and, as the Reuben slogan tells you, became an 

Shortly, the institution became an all-day-all-night 
restaurant. Mr. Reuben raised his prices again; named 
more sandwiches for celebrities; invented a dozen sand- 
wiches that none but a master-mind could really master; 
combined cheese and meat and onions and slaw and 
tomatoes and bacon and a rich, indigestible Russian dress- 
ing; christened the sandwiches feelingly, giving to each 
one a practical personality in short, he raised the in- 
elegant dime sandwich to a wholly elegant dollar status! 


The blue -bloods of Park Avenue and the hot-bloods 
of Broadway came, and saw, and were seen, and came 
again. And Mr. Reuben, noting among his patrons the 
number of ermine wraps, installed a line of perfumes 
next to his delicatessen counter, imported the most ex- 
pensive odeurs obtainable, and over night built one of 
the most successful Perfume and Pastrami institutions in 
the world. 

Now, the who's who of New York flocks there, pays 
its dollar and a half for scrambled eggs and Irish bacon, 
its dollar for an Al Jolson or a Ruby Keeler sandwich, 
partakes of the very best food-stuffs in America, and 
pays the price, and cheerfully too! 

You can get anything to eat at Reuben's anything 
from the world's finest coffee to the world's most ex- 
pensive caviar; from a dollar sandwich to a three-dollar 
broiled lobster. And sitting in the comfortable, leather- 
covered semi-booths, you can see all Broadway parade 
before you. 

At Reuben's, especially after the theater, you'll see 
Phil Baker, the Accordion Man, Fanny Brice and her 
producer-husband, Billy Rose, Mayor Jimmy Walker and 
Betty Compton, Kouznetzoff, the huge Russian Basso, 
and the bird-like Nicolina, the captious Ted Healy and 
the incomparably funny Dave Chasen, Sophie Tucker 
and Belle Baker, George White and Otto Kahn, Horace 
Liveright and Texas Guinan, Sylvia Sidney and Arthur 
Byron, Roger Pryor and Abner Rubien, Irving Strouse 
and Guy Lombardo, Violet Carlson and Heywood Broun, 
Georgie Jessel and Georgie Price and every other name 
you've ever heard of. 

And in the vast and celebrated assemblage every night, 
darting from table to table, shaking a hand here and 


passing a word there, you'll find Arnold Reuben himself 
once a delicatessen counter-man, and proud of it 
now, the friend of all Broadway, and proud of that too! 
Reuben's is one of the landmarks of the town a land- 
mark that you simply mustn't miss! 

Reuben's American 

622 Madison Avenue (Between 58th and 59th Streets) 

The original Reuben's persists at 2270 Broadway a boon 
to uptowners 

Open all day and all night 

A la carte only and fairly expensive 

Maitre d' hotel: Arnold Reuben 


Whoopee! (Anglo-Yiddish Version) 

Forget your Broadway and your Park Avenue. Go East! 
Go East with a vengeance go thoroughly East! Take 
a taxi through Pushcart Plaza and Huckster's Row. 
Travel on down through what a local columnist once 
called the Go-Ghetto. Wend your way slowly through 
traffic-laden lanes, through side streets where stores dis- 
play silk shirts at twenty dollars, and fur coats at two 
thousand and sell them at those figures, too; where the 
local dandies pay thirty dollars for their shows and not 
a dime for neckties; where the local ladies of fashion 
spend hundreds on their gowns, and wear no hats; where 


diamonds glitter and gleam on plump and pudgy fingers, 
and Cadillacs are a drug on the market! East Houston 
Street! New York's East Side! The Ghetto! 

There's a restaurant behind every other window, a 
haberdashery between each restaurant, and a push-cart 
before each door. Corsets sell for a nickel and derbies 
sell for a dime. You can equip a modern kitchen from 
a street cart and garlic comes by the yard! The belles 
of the neighborhood read Somerset Maugham and wear 
silk stockings and sealskin coats, and the gentlemen of 
the local upper-crust carry their bank-rolls in their 
pockets! This is East Houston Street twenty minutes 
from Broadway in a cab, but years removed in custom. 

At Number 158, you go down a flight of worn, iron 
stairs. You emerge in a room that is as glittery and 
ornate as that local movie theater lobby that occasioned 
a Broadway wit to conclude that Harry Thaw had shot 
the wrong architect! This is a reception room as gor- 
geous as gorgeous! 

And from the reception room you step into a glitter- 
ing restaurant; a restaurant with endless rows of long 
tables, sparkling under the load of countless bottles, 
bread trays, and table furniture. On a platform, at one 
side, a slick-haired, pallid orchestra is jazzing out the 
newest Broadway show hits, and the ample dance floor 
is crowded; for this is Sunday night, and Sunday night 
is the night to come to Perlman's. Huge women are 
dancing with other huge women; barging ladies, laden 
with jewelry and it's real jewelry, too fox-trot with 
tired, skinny little shrunken men; shoulders bob and 
heave; bracelets clank, and everybody talks, or sings, or 
shouts. Here's color, and life and whoopee as the West 
Side brethren don't know how to make it! 


Insolent, lackadaisical waiters talk back to you, bawl 
you out, bang your order down in front of you, bring 
you tall, blue siphons of seltzer wherewith to wash down 
the amazingly rich food concoctions, plump bread trays 
in front of you and if you don't like it, that's your 
fault. The local clientele don't mind it a bit. 

The food, for the most part, is invariably unspell- 
able and wholly delicious. Sweetbreads, such as 
you never encountered before; smoked goose pastrami; 
aromatic salami; chicken-livers, chopped fine and 
sprinkled with chopped onions; Wiener schnitzel; 
pickled tomatoes and pickled peppers; sweet and sour 
tongue; and huge black radishes. Because it's so good, 
you eat and eat until your head swims, drinking seltzer 
to help it along; and you leave only when the glittering 
room seems to circle around you, when the gold-toothed, 
buxom entertainers have sung their torch songs, when 
the dancer has done her wriggling, and the cigaret girl 
has become so persistent that you must either leave, or 

You'll find the lower East Side a joy and a never-end- 
ing source of wonderment; and as to restaurants Perl- 
man's is of the best. 

Perlman's Rumanian Ratkskellar Rumanian 

158 East Houston Street 

No table d'hote dinner. A la carte items fairly expensive 
Open from 7 A. M. until 3 A. M. 


The Pere Tranquil of Mulberry Street 

Moneta's! The Pere Tranquil of Mulberry Street! 
Synonym for leisure, for epicurean delights; symbol of 
tranquillity, and one of the last remaining relics of res- 
taurants in the truly European manner. Moneta's is a 
haven for gourmets and epicures, for ladies and gentle- 
men who dine with leisure, who know rare food when 
they come upon it, and who also know they will come 
upon it here. 

There are doubtless a dozen ways for reaching 32 Mul- 
berry Street, but a lazy epicurean adventurer can only 
suggest that you follow the line of least resistance and 
hail a taxi. For bordering Mulberry Street, avenues and 
streets run in all directions. The Ghetto twists and curls 
through Little Italy; Little Italy bubbles over into the 
Bowery; the tributaries of the Bowery trickle off into 
Chinatown, and around the corner from Chinatown lies 
Mulberry Street and Moneta's. It's all pretty compli- 
cated we can tell you, but it's well worth the trip. 

In the little white-tiled room that is Moneta's, ruled 
over by the watery gray eye of Papa Moneta himself, 
you can close your ears to the rumbling of the Elevated 
a half block away, the whistles of the push-carts just 
outside the door, the jabber of the local youths bent on 
opening taxi-cab doors, and settle yourself before a din- 
ner such as only Pere Tranquil, or Charles Sebillon him- 
self, might prepare for you. 

The room is small so small that it seems almost tiny. 
Also, it is fairly bare. At one end there is a table liter- 


ally bulging with fresh-killed poultry, with raw peppers, 
broccoli, melons, and huge, inviting cheeses. At Mon- 
eta's, if you're so inclined, you may select your dinner in 
the raw. But it isn't necessary. For who wants to 
trouble with a squab chicken casserole or a jumbo squab 
Tirolese, even if they are fresh from the Moneta farm, 
when Scallopine of Veal al Marsala is to be had? Scal- 
lopine al Marsala the tenderest, sweetest bits of white 
veal, done to a luscious brown turn, lathed lovingly in 
Papa Moneta's famous sauces, smothered affectionately 
in whisps of toothsome mushrooms, and served sizzling 
hot. Also, there is Zuppa di Pesce, an Italian Bouilla- 
baise that need take no quarter from the Bouillabaise of 
Marseille; or Ravioli al Polio; or Spaghetti Bolognese! 

And when the last vestige of your Scallopine is gone, 
or your plate is bare of the toothsome Apizza that inch- 
thick, potato pan-cake, sprinkled with Parmesan Cheese 
and stewed tomatoes Papa Moneta himself will bring 
for your selection a huge tray of imported cheeses 
Aromatic Gorgonzola, Belle Piasi, Head Cheese, Gruyere, 
Roquefort or, instead, a huge, crisp pear to be cut in 
slices, lengthwise, and leisurely nibbled. And while you 
sip your demi-tasse of faultless Continental coffee, look 
around you. 

That gentleman in the furthest corner will likely prove 
to be George Jean Nathan, the critic, or Julian Street, 
the scribe. And all about, you will see Judges, and 
actors, and writers: Judge Grover Moscowitz of the 
Supreme Court; David Belasco; Robert Garland of the 
Telegram; Frank Lynch of the Evening Post, and H. L. 
Mencken and Will Rogers, when they're in town. For 
nearly everyone who goes to Moneta's is somebody, and 
round, ruddy-faced Moneta, with his finger in every pie, 


is Papa Moneta to all. Moneta's isn't exactly expensive 
but it isn't cheap. Two can dine here comfortably for 
about five dollars. But how comfortably! 

Moneta's Italian 

32 Mulberry Street 

No table d'hote. Two can eat for about 5.00 

Open for luncheon and dinner 

Maitre d'hotel: Papa Moneta who is also the proprietor 


Old English 

Venturesome Gothamites returning from over the high 
seas, babble on of the homely hominess of old English 
inns, of raftered ceilings and smoke-smudged fire-screens, 
of broiled English mutton chops and Yorkshire Buck, 
and complain woefully that alas, New York has noth- 
ing, absolutely nothing, like them. 

Yet, on Forty-ninth Street, a few yards east of Sev- 
enth Avenue, The Tavern thrives thrives primarily 
because it has every comfortable feature of the homiest 
English Inn, including a host of traditions of its own. 

The Tavern is, in every respect, the duplicate of all 
the English Inns you've ever heard tell of. Its huge 
raftered and gabled ceiling spreads over all protectingly; 
its brick and deep-stained paneled oak walls are smudged 
with the smoke of a million placid pipes. An immense, 
burnished brick fire-place at one end of the comfortable 
old room bids you be at ease, while a heavy-footed, 


white-aproned waiter as slow as any that a veritable 
English tavern ever boasted brings you your double- 
thick English mutton chop, as rare as you like, and your 
baked potato, as big as all out-doors! 

At the Tavern, waiting complacently for your order, 
you sit contemplating the pictures of the Presidents that 
range the walls, or ruminating as to who's who oppo- 
site you. Here, to the Tavern, comes the inimitable 
Bugs Baer for the well-known Tavern Mixed Grill; here, 
also, Gene Tunney partook of the he-man foods that 
helped him to the championship; Tommy Loughran and 
Maurice Chevalier swear by the venerable Billy La Hiff 
and the food that he purveys; and when Roscoe (Fatty) 
Arbuckle is in town, the Tavern is his regular hide-away. 

The Tavern food is plain and good; steaks, two 
inches or more thick, are brought in sizzling and sputter- 
ing and oozing aromatic gravy; the beer, served in tall 
beakers, is grand, and the coffee, served in little uncov- 
ered copper kettles, is well worth leaving home for. 
There is no regular, or table d'hote, dinner; nor does 
Billy La Hiff compromise even on a Blue Plate. The 
food is uniformly good, uniformly expensive, and the 
atmosphere is uniformly appetizing, wholesome and 

The Tavern Restaurant English 

West 49th Street (near 7th Avenue) 

No table d'hote, but two should do well under $5.00 
Open from 11 A. M. to midnight 
Maitre d f hotel: Billy La Hiff 




If Chinese food and Chinese restaurants immediately 
conjure up thoughts of Mother-of -Pearl inlaid tables, 
Chinese waiters in alleged dinner coats, chow mein, 
automatic pianos, or elaborate floor shows featuring 
broken-down vaudeville adagio dancers, you will either 
be vastly surprised or sadly disappointed in the Bamboo 

For the Bamboo Forest, almost hidden in the maze of 
signs, twisting alleys and littered by-ways of MacDougal 
Street, offers you none of these things. The Bamboo 
Forest, no bigger than a minute, and no more like other 
Chinese restaurants than Pierre's, is a charming, com- 
fortable little red-lacquered room, with a huge open 
fireplace (that works), a few assorted patrons of the 
arts (the chances are they don't work) , and a few young 
college-bred Chinamen, who work as they learn. 

The story there is always a story behind a place like 
the Bamboo Forest is this. Mr. and Mrs. Williams, 
having lived in the Orient for many years, officially 
adopted the two house-boys that made their stay in 
China a happy one. They brought the boys, Lee and 
Yang, to America; moved bag and baggage with them 
into the MacDougal Street domicile, and straightway 
permitted them to help themselves. The Bamboo Forest 
has been the result. Here the three boys (another has 
joined the family since) work and study and cultivate 
themselves mentally by day; cook, and cater and build 
their incomes by night. 


In the Bamboo Forest, while you wait for your genu- 
ine Chinese food, the agile young Lee will kindle a fire 
in the fireplace for you, offer you a book of Keats' to 
browse in, show you the bust that a well-known sculptor 
made of him, and show you his own handiwork, which 
now decorates the walls. Likely as not you will meet 
"Ma" Williams and "Pa" Williams, and the Williams' 
kennel of Pekingese dogs; you will meet Yang, and per- 
haps, half a dozen of the literotics who foregather there. 

In the course of the most romantic, poetic evening 
you've ever spent, you will enjoy chop suey such as 
you've never heard tell of before; you will marvel that 
anything in the whole wide world can be so good as the 
Bamboo Forest version of Shrimps and Pineapple; Lee, 
or Yang, will show you how to use chopsticks com- 
fortably and successfully; you will sip Jasmine tea, and 
wonder how anything can smell so much like rare, fine 
perfume, and taste so much better than any tea you have 
ever tried. You'll love the little wicker tea-baskets, 
which preserve its temperature, and the thoroughly 
Oriental finesse with which your repast is brought you. 

And in the course of your stay, you may meet Charles 
D. Isaacson, the music critic; Harry Kemp, who tramps 
on life and writes poetry between times; Rosa Mortl, 
the soprano; Richard Halliburton, the adventurer; Cyn- 
thia White, the Greenwich Villager, and a host of other 
folk who know their Broadway, and consequently, like 
their Bamboo Forest so much better. 

The Bamboo Forest Chinese 

127 MacDougal Street (just southwest of Washington 

Open for luncheon, dinner and after-theater supper 


No table d'hote, but everything a la carte is most reason- 
ably priced 
Uaitre d'hotel: Lee (or Ma Williams) 


The Trail of '98 

They have changed its entrance half a dozen times; have 
scraped it, polished it, set it back, painted it and re- 
painted it but the spirit of the Hotel Brevoort goes 
on, undaunted and unchanged. A city of sandwich 
shops, coffee counters and cafeterias has sprung up 
around it, indicative of a new order and a new day; 
automobiles whizz by its doors; airplanes zoom over its 
hoary head; motor coaches roar up and down the avenue 
before it; but once inside the hotel you are out of the 
bustle and confusion of our present hurried era, back in 
the luxurious leisure of a thousand, unchanged yester- 

The Brevoort, built in 1854, may one day die but 
it will never totter! It will stand, an ineradicable mon- 
ument to those delightful times when New York, like 
Paris, looked upon its dinner hour as a pleasureable rite 
rather than an unfortunate necessity. The spirit of the 
Brevoort that spirit of unhurried luxury, of leisurely 
fellowship remains. 

Phillipe, old, and a little enfeebled now, takes your 
wraps as you enter, but he gives you no hat-check. Mais 
non! Is it not his place to remember you? Alphonse 
bows low as you enter the low-ceilinged, tiled dining 
room, bows low and shows you to a comfortable little 


walled table, with all the ceremony due a foreign poten- 
tate, as he seats you in this hall of yesterdays. 

And with due ceremony, a courteous, swift, French 
waiter bids you the time of day and takes your order. 
Nor is there a single item we might suggest that sur- 
passes all others on the menu! At the Brevoort, any- 
thing you order is delicious. The Persian melon is just 
the proper temperature and of just the proper sweetness 
and ripeness; the soft clams a la Ancienne, served sizzling 
hot with a crispy wisp of bacon, are of never-to-be-for- 
gotten goodness; the Snails a la Parisienne are tender, 
memorable tid-bits; the Royal Squab en cocotte Bon 
Femme is the zenith of all things culinary. Never, this 
side of Paris, have there been such frog's legs, such 
Halibut Hoteliere, such Pomme de Terre Souffle, such 
Sauce Bernaise, such Tripe a la Mode de Caen! 

Little wonder then that truly great plays are written 
at the tables of the Brevoort, between the Fromage and 
the Demi-tasse; that true Bohemians, in pursuit of the 
Muse, have come in for luncheon and stayed on for din- 
ner; that New York's foremost artists, writers, play- 
wrights the Belascos, the Frohmans, the Van Vechtens, 
the Nathans, the Barrymores, the Menjous, the Poganys, 
the Urbans, the Faith Baldwins, and the Liverights 
abound here ! You'll find Achmed Abdullah and George 
S. Kaufman, Marc Connelly and H. L. Mencken, Hans 
Flato and L. S. Goldsmith leisurely epicures basking 
in the quiet, homely cheer of the never changing, never 
hurried, old Brevoort. 

Incidentally, it was Raymond Orteig, original owner 
and builder of the Brevoort, who offered the $25,000 
prize for a New York-Paris flight that inspired Colonel 
Charles A. Lindbergh on his undertaking! The Bre- 


voort still belongs to Raymond Orteig, and the tradi- 
tions that began three-quarters of a century ago still are 
part and parcel of the hotel and its famous dining room. 

The Brevoort French 

5th Avenue and &th Street 

Open from 6 A. M. until midnight 

Table d'hote dinner, $2.00. A la carte menu about 
average as to price 

Maitre d'hotel: Alphonse 


Camaraderie on Ninth Street 

We have told you of the Brevoort, last of an old order, 
referring to it as "last" when what we should have called 
it was "one of the last two," because everything that can 
be said of the Brevoort can also be said of the Hotel 
Lafayette, or, as it is better known, the Cafe Lafayette. 
The Cafe Lafayette continues in its leisurely, un- 
changed way under the vigilant, sparkling eye of the 
Brevoort's M. Raymond Orteig. The connection between 
the two hotels really is in its way a family affair. If you'll 
believe your old-timers, the story goes like this. Mon- 
sieur Orteig owned the Lafayette, which, back in the 
days of good food and jolly leisure, became so popular 
that it was necessary to acquire another place, as much 
like it as possible. Monsieur Orteig acquired the Bre- 
voort. He also acquired a general manager in the person 
of his old friend, Monsieur Elie Daution. Now, in the 


passing of years, Monsieur Orteig had a son and Monsieur 
Daution had a daughter, and just as they do in the story 
books, these two were married. Hence, the matter of 
the Lafayette and the Brevoort became a family affair; 
the proprietor became a corporation; the Lafayette be- 
came the proudest, happiest rendezvous (excepting only 
the Brevoort) in all New York, and the two hotels 
became by-words for leisure, luxury and camaraderie in 
the Mad Metropolis! 

One goes to the Brevoort, primarily, to eat. But one 
goes to the Lafayette for a number of things. There is 
a corner cafe a veritable game room, where the never 
wholly-localized Frenchman, caught in the maze of un- 
bridled American energy, seeks a quiet haven where he 
may play a game of checkers, or dominoes, or cards. 
There he may meet, in all the atmosphere of a cheerful 
neighborhood club, other kindred spirits; may sit with 
them and sip his black coffee (once upon a time he 
sipped his cognac, and his fin, here but, alas prohibi- 
tion!) and sadly discuss the times that are, in the friendly 
atmosphere of the times that were. The liquors and the 
cordials are gone, but the spirit of them lingers on. 

Beyond the game room, there are pleasant, spacious 
dining rooms. One, on the Ninth Street side, is half 
open in the summer, and is reminiscent of nothing so 
much as the Marguery and the many contemporary 
Brasseries that dot the Boulevards of Paris. Here, the 
hors d'oeuvres, once actually imported from the Brass- 
erie Universelle in Paris, continue to be reminiscent of 
that place; the Homard Armenonville are large and 
lavish and sweet as the Longouste overseas; the Poussin 
Roti and the Filet de Bass Joinville are epicurean ecsta- 
sies; the Petit Fours are incomparable! 


The service at the Lafayette is, if anything, even more 
leisurely than at the Brevoort. And there is always 
Madame la Caissiere, perched at her lofty desk where 
she makes change for the waiters, to see that everything 
goes along smoothly and just so. 

At the Lafayette you'll see, noon after noon, and night 
after night, an ever changing clientele, won to a never- 
changing rendezvous of relaxation. Here, then, is the 
New York that used to be! 

The Lafayette French 

Ninth Street and University Place 

The a la carte menu is average in price 

Also, there is a regular business men's lunch, and many 
special plates 

Open from 7 A. M. until midnight 
Maitre d 9 hotel: Pierre, Madame la Caissiere 


The Customer is Not Always Right! 

Probably the most bored maitre d'hotel in all New York 
excepting, of course, those gentlemen in the ultra 
high-hat restaurants who are professionally bored is 
Mario, the chief gloom at the otherwise delightful 

It is Mario who wears an expression of utter and 
absolute dejection as you trip happily down the three 
stone steps into Barbetta's, who grimaces unhappily 
making a face as though he had just tasted something 


that had been off the ice too long in return for your 
cheery "good evening." It is Mario, too, who grudg- 
ingly turns his back on you, as though you were none 
of his affair, and lets you stand around all uncertain, 
while your eyes fine-comb the crowded room on a still- 
hunt for a table. And then, as your heart jumps at the 
sight of an empty one in a nice secluded corner, and 
you leap to tell Mario about it, it is the disgruntled Mario 
himself who tells you sadly that you don't know what 
you're talking about, who shrugs unconcernedly, as you 
suggest that maybe you'd do just as well some other 
place, where the food may not be so excellent but the 
courtesy more pronounced. 

Not only is the food at Barbetta's the acme of excel- 
lence, but the prices are infinitesimally low, so low that 
it almost makes it worth your while to completely ignore 
the unhappy Mario, and to wait around and try a 
portion of the Barbetta Polpettine. 

Barbetta's, so far as physical surroundings go, is sim- 
ply a none-too-large, made-over private house, with a 
square-tiled room in the rear, jammed with uncom- 
fortable tables and unconscionable waiters. But the 
Finocchio, the Veal Cotlette Parmigiana, the Scallopine 
of Veal al Marsala, and the curly Chicory with Barbetta 
dressing, are the things that have made the establish- 
ment stand out like an oasis in a desert of French Table 
d'hotes, one-arm cafeterias, and synthetic Italian Gar- 

The Barbetta clientele is made up largely of Italian 
singers, musicians, the bigwigs of the Broadway stage, 
chorus girls whose presence there is more a matter of 
economy than an epicurean bent, and people who have 


heard about the place from other people who have heard 
of it! 

Celebrities, stepping out of their divers and sundry 
characters during the dinner hour, flock to Barbetta's, 
and half the fun of eating there is in deciding whether 
that thoroughly attractive gentleman on your left is 
really Richard Barthelmess or merely someone who looks 
tremendously like him. Nevertheless, it is the food that 
brings you in, and it is the food that brings you back, 
time and again. 

Barbetta's Italian 

321 West 46th Street (between Stb and 9th Avenues) 

Open for luncheon and dinner 

No table d'hote, but the most reasonable a la carte menu 
in New York 

Maitre d'hotel: Mario 


Exclusive But Expensive! 

Alexander Woollcott was so smitten with the Mirliton 
Restaurant that he ran right home and proceeded to sit 
down and write a perfectly dandy piece about it for 
The New Yorker. He painted it a cross between 
the Elysian Fields and Pierre's, and adjective chased 
adjective and grand adjectives, and well-chosen they 
were too. And the article made you want to run right 
over, leap down the four steps that separate the Mirliton 
from the rest of the world, and crash right through the 


stained glass door, in your hurry to sample some of its 

But was the Mirliton grateful? The management 
chewed its finger-nails, pushed its chin even higher into 
the blue, and swore that he was a ruined hombre an 
irreparably ruined hombre, what's more! 

For, it seems, to hear the maitre d'hotel tell it, Mr. 
Woollcott's article brought customers common, ordi- 
nary, every-day readers of what we had always thought 
was a genuinely smart magazine. There wasn't a drop 
of genuinely blue-blood in the lot; no Rolls-Royces drew 
up softly before the portals, and no princesses popped 
in for tea! That's what happened. All the Mirliton 
got out of the adventure was an assortment of cus- 
tomers who, although they paid the high Mirliton tariff 
uncomplainingly, brought nothing in the way of social 
elegance with them. 

The Mirliton is, henceforth, washed up with writers 
and their ilk. They want nothing of publicity; they 
are too busy now; they beg to be excused. We merely 
mention it in passing, that's all. 

Here you'll find the hors d'oeuvres unlimited in 
variety and unexcelled; nowhere, this side of the Brass- 
erie Universelle in Paris, do they have such hors 
d'oeuvres. You'll find the Plat du Jour excellent, and 
the aloofness of the Maitre d'hotel unforgivable, and, 
if you're like us, unforgettable to say nothing of inex- 
cuseable. You'll find the atmosphere quiet, the clientele 
exclusive (although an Alexander Woollcott is bound 
to bob in, every now and then) , and you'll also find gobs 
and gobs of patrons who just toddle in to see such per- 
sons as Alexander Woollcott. If you come in your 
Hispano Suiza and send your coat of arms on ahead with 


an equerry, the Maitre d'hotel will probably even speak 
to you! However, the food is excellent, and that is rare. 
It was our original idea to tear this particular reference 
out of all such books as were sold elsewhere than on 
Park Avenue, or, at best, very near to Park Avenue; 
but the publishers, who are sticklers for proletarianism 
and neatness, wouldn't hear of it. Consequently, noth- 
ing remains but to sit home of an evening and hope and 
hope and hope that the Mirliton Management just won't 
consider this publicity! 

The Mirliton French 

14 East 5 8th Street 

A la Carte only and expensive 
Open for luncheon and dinner 
Maitre d'hotel: George (Didn't we tell you?) 


Smorgasbord And Such 

No epicurean adventure is complete without a one- 
meal stop-over at the Wivel. What if the Wivel is off 
the beaten path? What if you've never heard of it? 
Travel over to Manhattan's East Forties, stop the first 
man from Sweden you come to, ask him if he's ever 
heard of the Wivel, and watch him roll his eyes to 
heaven, close his lips caressingly, and murmur, as in a 
dream- "Yah, the Wayvil!" 

For the Wivel is to the Northlander what Papa Mon- 
eta's is to George Jean Nathan, what Sardi's is to Daniel 


Frohman, what the Algonquin once was to Heywood 
Broun. The Wive! is Swedish. Also, the Wivel has 
somewhat of an air. The air is composed of quite the 
awfullest three-piece stringed orchestra you've ever 
heard; an orchestra that blithely, innocently, mutilates 
the very best musical pieces current on Broadway 
and you can dance to them if you must. 

But the Wivel isn't the place to go when you're look- 
ing for sprightly tunes, or an acre of dance floor. Your 
business at the Wivel is that of a person with a one- 
track mind. In short, you visit the Wivel to eat and 
you had best pay close attention to your prime purpose. 
For it is at the Wivel that the huge round table of Smor- 
gasbord causes jaded appetites to come about sharply, 
and eyes that are weary of searching out some succulent 
specialty on the average menu, to quicken with new life. 

On the Smorgasbord table a new world awaits you. 
Pickled herrings crowd radishes as large as your fist; 
luscious stuffed eggs are side by side with sardines the 
size of small pike; Swiss cheese, Swedish cheese and 
"hand kase" interlope on olives large as plums, and 
celery, stuffed to overflowing with Roquefort cheese 
paste, bristles beside a bowl of pickled mushrooms; pate 
de foie gras honest to goodness pate de foie gras, and 
no liverwurst-and-butter combination, either and 
when you've come this far, you've come only a skimpy 
quarter of the way. For there are some forty odd 
varieties of cold Smorgasbord; some six varieties of hot 
Smorgasbord, including aromatic grilled chicken-livers, 
and a toothsome, steaming hot, egg-and-sausage com- 
bination. And when you've had some of all and not 
until you've tasted all does dinner really begin at the 


For remember this is merely the Smorgasbord trie 
Swedish equivalent of the French hors d'oeuvres a 
mere nothing, as it were, meant merely to whet your 
appetite. You take your own plate, or plates, if you 
prefer, and circle the Smorgasbord table yourself, select- 
ing anything or everything you want, and, that over, 
you sit at your table with the feeling that you never, 
never want to eat again and then what happens? Then, 
a genial, straw-haired waiter brings you Swedish vege- 
table soup, a fish entree, a complete baby squab, with 
potatoes, green peas and carrots, and, for dessert, a 
ravishing plate of Swedish apple-cake that makes you 
weep to think how truly limited is man's stomach. 
(Swedish apple-cake, a cousin to our own American 
Brown Betty, is actually a stop-over at the Elysian fields 
but alas, it comes far too late.) 

So, having topped the foregoing off with a demi- 
tasse, you are all prepared to have the waiter present 
you with a check as generous as such a dinner might 
bring forth, but he doesn't do anything of the kind. At 
the Wivel, the foregoing regular dinner costs just $1.75 
per person. 

The Wivel Swedish 

254 West 54th Street 

Table d'hote dinner, $1.75 

Open for luncheon, dinner, and after-theater supper 


No cover charge 



The Best Dam 9 Caballero in All Greenwich Village! 

Suave, swarthy waiters in tight red coats; the nimble 
tapping of vivacious, tiny heels; the staccato clack of 
rhythmic castanets; the tinkle of guitars! 

Downtown you go, to the very heart of Greenwich 
Village and lo and behold, you're in the heart of 
Sunny Spain! There is nothing synthetic about the 
Spain they picture for you down at Chico's, nothing of 
the Broadway musical comedy or the interior decorator's 
delight! Chico's is Spain transplanted to the Village. 
And when you're fed up on steaks and turkey wings 
and potatoes O'Brien, then Chico's is the place for you. 

What if the pale blue fleece-studded sky under which 
you loll is a trifle imaginative? Is not the Arroz (pro- 
nounced Arroth) con Polio savory to the last grain of 
tender yellow rice? For Chico's, with all its marvel- 
ous murals by Usabal; its photographs of bull-fighters, 
and its warm, sunny atmosphere, is essentially a place 
to come and eat. Here, while you watch a glint-eyed, 
five-foot Spanish whirlwind toss her pretty head to the 
rhythmic jangle of a tambourine, a straight-backed, red- 
coated young Spaniard arranges your fare with a grace 
that is almost a rite. 

Arroz con Polio the tenderest of chicken, done to a 
burnished brown, with yellow rice forming little hil- 
locks under the tastiest of native gravies! A meal, and 
what a meal. Or, if you're not so hungry, Huevos 
Malaguena eggs, sunny-side up, Spanish style, served 
in a little casserole dish, with a Spanish pepper sauce 


you'll never forget. And for dessert Cascos de Guayba 
con Queso Crema, Guava, with cream cheese, Flan de 
Huevo (we warn you, this is perilously like the caramel 
custard you'd turn your nose up at, in a tea room) , and 
a beaker of sparkling, fruity, imported Spanish Cider! 
Nor have we so much as begun. 

At Chico's, the Calmares en su Tinta Spanish squids 
with dark sauce and rice are perfection; the Arroz con 
Mariscos yellow rice, with small, unforgettable shell- 
fish are delights. 

And while you linger over your dinner, a Spanish 
orchestra plays swinging tunes of old Madrid. The alert 
Francisco Padro will show you the guitar personally in- 
scribed to Senor Collada by the inimitable Raquel Meller, 
herself; Senor Herera will sing rollicking love chants 
of old Seville; and Senorita Guanita De Sol, or Senor 
Usabal, the artist, or the sad-eyed, far-famed La Argen- 
tina, the danseuse, picking daintily at her Pasta Guayaba, 
will toss you a warm, Spanish smile. 

El Chico's is now located at 80 Grove Street. You 
reach it via the West Side subway, getting off at the 
Sheridan Square Station. And heaven help you if you 
don't remember to change from the express at 14th Street. 

Chico's Spanish 

80 Grove Street 

Table d'hote dinner, $2.00 

Open for dinner and after-theater supper 

Cover charge, after 9 P. M., week days, $.75; Saturdays, 
Sundays and Holidays, $1.00 

Maitre d'hotel: Francisco 



The Flighty Fifties 

It's odd, but one of the things you learn from repeated 
experience, is that the restaurants with the most mir- 
rors, the fussiest furbelows and the snootiest waiters, 
invariably make up in furnishings what they lack in 
food and vice versa. Actually, a well-turned dinner 
is not so much the matter of a versatile interior dec- 
orator as the result of a perspiring chef who knows by 
instinct just how long the broccoli must boil, and how 
many whirls to give the Hollandaise! 

The Parisien is one of these restaurants in which you 
sit on ordinary chairs, at ordinary tables, in a perfectly 
ordinary atmosphere. It is a place devoid of all fanciful 
fripperies and splurge. The waiters mostly have flat 
feet and an inherent distaste for work, the room is fairly 
bare, and it takes you twenty minutes to get another 
helping of butter. But, night after night, you'll see 
the same faces which means that here, patrons not only 
come in, but they come back. And there's good reason, 
too. For the Parisien specializes in good food, and in 
nothing else. 

Haven of the cartoonists who work in the neighbor- 
hood (the Hearst and King Feature offices are just around 
the corner) , there is a Bohemian atmosphere about the 
Parisien, whether it wants that sort of thing or not. 
Original cartoons line the walls: humorous tributes to 
the restaurant and to the rare specialties it offers; and 
along with the cartoons there are newspaper clippings, 


all duly framed: unsolicited testimonials to the ability 
of the Parisien to satisfy the inner man. 

Here, the Eggs a la Bruno have won a city-wide re- 
nown; the lamb kidney saute Turbigo is a feature of the 
house; the Bordelaise and Bernaise sauces are the work 
of sheer genius; the half Guinea Hen Berlinoise is not 
to be compared with any in all New York. Here, too, 
from the French-Italian kitchen, comes Scallopine of 
Veal al Marsala, so tender that you need no knife to cut 
it; minced Sweetbreads a la Scotti that are perfection; 
Tagliarini that melts in your mouth, and Spaghetti Ca- 
ruso, done to a tender turn! The Crepe Suzettes are 
angelic; the Zabaglioni a frothy, sherried masterpiece 
and with it all, the modesty of the check is an unfor- 
gettable surprise. 

There are a hundred restaurants you can visit for frills 
and frolic; but the Parisien is the place to come for food! 

The Parisien French-Italian 

304 West 5 6th Street 

No tabel d'hote dinner, but an amazingly low-priced 
a la carte menu 

Open from 11.30 A.M. to 9.30 P. M., including Sundays 
Maitre d'hotel: frank 


"Der Bier 1st Gute" 

And so, to steal the meter of the facile W. S. Gilbert, is 
the pot roast and the schwarz brot and the maatjes her- 
ring. For in the little restaurant on Forty-ninth Street, 
which portly Madame Lina Hoberg has but recently re- 
christened "Zum Gartenhaus," everything is not only 
good but filling, and German, and inexpensive, and 

For eight years now Madame Lina has been dispensing 
the choicest, homiest of German delicatessen (which, in 
its untainted original, means good food and not simply 
an establishment where everything is sold in cans, bot- 
tles and bags), and everything was going along swim- 
mingly until New York was suddenly beset with a 
plague of Bavarian Gartenhauses. Forthwith, a friend 
urged Madame to keep in the swim. The sign "Lina 
Hoberg" was replaced by the title "Zum Gartenhaus"; 
red-checked table-cloths covered the spotless white ones; 
singing waiters in short pants supplanted the erstwhile 
obers who kept their calves well covered; and in a trice 
almost over night Madame Hoberg's loyal clientele 
were singing "Em Prosit," and "Schnitzelbank." 

Thus have we progressed. Now, in "Zum Garten- 
haus," trick, ultra-German signs adorn the walls; hu- 
morous attempts at art work leer at you; waiters in 
knee-pants and Alpine hats trot around bearing six- 
teen steins of beer at a time but the food hasn't changed 
an iota. Thus also have we something to be grateful 
for. The German fare of Madame Lina is without peer 


or rival in this town. The pot roast, with red cabbage 
and potato pancakes, is inspirational; the knackwurst 
with sauerkraut is perfection; the pigs knuckles are 
choice, dainty, and memorable; and the cost of each is 
so trifling that invariably you believe your yodeling 
waiter to be in error. And yet he never is. For no one 
in New York can, or has, touched Madame Lina Ho- 
berg's, when it comes to low prices, plentiful portions, 
and that aura of quality that hovers over everything 
you order. And oddly enough, only the excellence of 
the fare is what keeps you from throwing things at 
the Alpine violinist, the pseudo-Bavarian Master of Cere- 
monies, whose hearty, deep-bellied roar can be heard 
above the clinking of a score of steins, and the entertainer 
who insists that the drawing of a Dachshund with a 
curly tail is excruciatingly funny and that you drop 
your delectable sauerbraten and join in the guffaws with 

Zum Gartenhaus boasts a clientele of echte German- 
Americans, vaudeville actors of assorted nationalities 
who recognize a grand meal when they hear the price 
of one, gay blades a-visiting from Milwaukee, and plump 
gentlemen who discuss music and musicians with their 
pumpernickel. The beer is exceptional, and the orches- 
tra leader is an ex-lion-tamer! 

Gartenhaus German 

165 West 49th Street 

No table d'hote dinner, but the daily specialties are sur- 
prisingly low priced 

Open from 11 A.M. until 3 A. M. 

Maitre d' hotel: Frank Scbwarz 



The Gay Nineties 

When the duster was an essential part of the motorist's 
equipment, when the Old King Cole painting that hung 
back of the Knickerbocker Bar was the talk of the town, 
Lorber's, with its broad acreage of mirrors, its scintillat- 
ing crystal lamp shades, and its "gay nineties" fixtures, 
was already one of the foremost haunts of the epicure 
of the Mauve Decade. Nor has it been influenced greatly 
since then by the changes that have been manifest 
around it. 

Today, you'd be ridiculed for wearing a duster in 
your motor; the King Cole painting reposes in the ball 
room of a private residence but Lorber's persists and 
exists, much as it did some thirty years ago, except that 
the prices have changed. The huge mirrored room con- 
tinues to look as big as all out-doors; they still have 
crystals on their lamp-shades; the broad, imposing stair- 
way that leads to the dining balcony continues to be 
the most impressive thing of its kind in all New York 
impressive in a sort of rich, grand, traditional way 
and for $2.00 now (it used to be $1.00) you can still 
get a table d'hote here that is easily the equivalent of 
an eight-course banquet, elsewhere. 

In few places will you find food served in greater 
quality or quantity! Or for so little. Here one actually 
eats his way from soup nay, he has clams or oysters 
first to nuts, and cheese, and a demi-tasse! For appe- 
tizers, there are olives large as plums, sliced beefsteak 
tomatoes, a salad of slaw and red peppers, and the tastiest 


Saltz-stangan to be found anywhere; among the en- 
trees, the maatjes herring salad maatjes herring, mixed 
with sliced pickle, onions, and garnished with crisp, 
crackly, quartered hearts of lettuce is unrivalled; the 
huge portion of roast pork and sauerkraut, or the enor- 
mous half of roast spring chicken is without peer; and 
just as you settle back and decide that you'd just as soon 
not eat again for at least another week, the waiter re- 
minds you reminds you in a happy, healthy, guttural 
German that there is still dessert, and cheese, and cof- 
fee due you! 

Lorber's is like that. There is a feeling of old-time 
luxury about eating there that seems to warm the 
cockles of your heart and makes the best of everything 
taste so much better. The service is fleet and cheerful; 
the young, white-smocked Negress, whose job it is to 
see that your water tumbler is always filled, is spry; 
and the overlording of Mr. Lorber himself, is personal 
and cheering. But, when you visit Lorber's, don't hurry. 
Everything is too good; every portion is too large; every 
minute is too leisurely, and delightful, to warrant hur- 
rying. And if possible, sit upstairs, hard by the rim of 
the rail, from which vantage point you can sit happily, 
unhurried, and survey the mixed coterie of diners on 
the bustling floor below. 

Lorber's Germ an- American 

1420 Broadway 

Table d'hote dinner, $2.00 (and what a dinner!) 

Open from 7 A. M. until 3 A. M. (with an excellent 
after-theater supper for $2.00) 

Maitre d'hotel: Mr. Lorber 




Let the Japanese have their Suki-yaki, the Germans their 
Knoedel, the French their Filet Bon Femme, and the 
Russians their Moscow Blini, while we try a little adven- 
ture into Americana for a change. Beefsteak Charlie's 
is exactly what you would expect to find in an estab- 
lishment named so bluntly, and at once so obviously. 

At Beefsteak Charlie's, no obsequious headwaiter 
bends into pretzel formations to lure your appreciative 
dollars, or shows you, with pomp and ceremony, to your 
seat. Beefsteak Charlie's, as intimated, is American; the 
complement of Beefsteak Charlie's is Irish. 

At Beefsteak Charlie's you find your seat by yourself. 
You tread a tiled, worn floor, inch-deep in sawdust, 
passing an oyster-bar on your way, and select the table 
covered with the cleanest available table-cloth to sit at. 
A huge, square-jawed waiter, reminiscent of every re- 
tired prize-fighter you've ever seen a waiter clad in the 
long, erstwhile-white "chop house" apron you imme- 
diately connect in your mind with oyster bars hands 
you an oft-thumbed menu, and promptly leaves you to 
sit and look around. On the otherwise bare walls you 
note the most amazing racing pictures you've ever seen. 
The room is bordered with them, and the astounding 
thing about them is that each is an actual snapshot of an 
accident: a jockey whirling through the air, a horse 
standing on his ear, or a breath-taking fall at the jumps. 

Then your waiter barges back again, takes a stubby 
pencil from off his ear, and you give him your order. 


And if you've been to Beefsteak Charlie's before, you 
order the specialty of the house a luscious beefsteak 
sandwich, a sandwich plentifully garnished with huge 
slices of Bermuda onion (if you don't eat the onion, 
you're missing half the party) , served steaming hot, and 
simply dripping butter, and accompanied by two little 
paper containers of chutney and catsup. And what a 
meal a steak sandwich is, too! 

And while you're waiting for the sandwich to come 
sizzling in, you can order clams or oysters, opened right 
before your eyes at the oyster bar, or fresh, crisp shrimps. 
And then, for dessert (you'll find the huge fruit pies 
a bit wet) there's just about the biggest and best home- 
made chocolate cake you've ever come face to face with, 
and a huge china beaker of excellent coffee to help it 

As you munch your sandwich, look about you. At 
one side of the room you'll probably see Camera, the 
boxer; Benny Leonard, the erstwhile lightweight cham- 
pion; the bigwigs of the bicycle races and of sports in 
general. Likely, you'll see the Daily Mirror's sport col- 
umnist, Dan Parker, or Paul Gallico of the News, or 
Marcus Griffin of the Enquirer, and, like as not, Florenz 
Ziegfeld, the Glorifier, himself. For Beefsteak Charlie's 
is an annex of greater Broadway, a sort of rendezvous 
for the who's who of Manhattan's Main Stem. 

It's a place you simply shouldn't miss, is Beefsteak 
Charlie's. And there's always the ample shoulder of 
Charlie, himself, to weep on when the steak's too rare, 
or the pie's too wet, or the beer's too flat or you can't 
recall the name of the stout gentleman on your left 
whose picture you know you have seen somewhere in the 


Beefsteak Charlie's American 

216 West 50th Street 

No table d'hote, but two can get away nicely for about 

Open for luncheon and dinner 

Maitre d'hotel: Charlie himself or your nearest waiter 


Sea-Food BUT Sea-food! 

The old one, credited to Mr. Emerson by the late Fra 
Elbertus Hubbard, and credited right back to Fra El- 
bertus by the rest of the writing fraternity the one 
about building a better mouse trap is applicable to 
broiling a better lobster, too. For The Lobster, that 
restaurant named after the homard it does so well by, 
has absolutely nothing to recommend it but its food! 

If you don't think that the best sea-food in all New 
York is ample recommendation, visit The Lobster some 
chill, brisk night; get there in the neighborhood of seven 
o'clock which everybody knows is New York's dinner 
hour and try to get a seat! And it need not be a 
Friday evening, either! For The Lobster, on a basis of 
good cookery alone, has put sea-food on a seven-day 
schedule. Lobsters are in season seven days a week, and 
seven fresh shipments weekly of every kind of fish served 
assure you that at this restaurant sea-food is fresh 
which is exactly what sea-food must be, to be good. 

The Lobster is a low-ceilinged, rambling restaurant, 
with the grace and courtliness of a one-arm cafeteria; 


with rushing, ribald waiters, who dash up and down 
between the long aisles of tables with squirming lobsters 
in their hands, who take your order in a restless, "must- 
be-getting-away" fashion, making the distance between 
the oyster bar, up front, and the kitchen in the rear, in 
pretty nearly nothing, flat. And for all that, The 
Lobster is the most successful sea-food restaurant in the 
town. To prove it, there are small sea-food restaurants 
on either side of this leader of them all restaurants that 
live and thrive on The Lobster overflow! 

Huge, mounted lobsters and fish of all descriptions, 
original cartoons by Mr. Hearst's Fay King and Harry 
Hershfield, and enlarged cartoons, are all that you will 
note in the way of decorative dooh-dahs. But then, 
The Lobster is a place in which to eat, rather than to 

Here, the broiled pompano is a morsel for the epicure; 
the broiled lobster (you select yours while he's still kick- 
ing and squirming) is tender and sweet; the scallops 
are small and luscious; the sea-bass is perfection, and 
the Newburg sauce is unsurpassed. 

And here, too, each night, you'll find actual mobs 
of people who know how difficult it is to find sea-food 
that actually smacks of the sea inlanders who have 
never seen an oyster, outlanders who have never tasted 
sword-fish, actors, artists, writers, and ladies from South 
Orange, bound for a near by theater all reveling in 
an orgy of deviled crab, baked fresh mackerel with an, 
unrivalled Creole sauce, and salmon, boiled, and smoth- 
ered in a luscious Hollandaise! 

There are a thousand sea-food restaurants in New 
York; there are a few good ones; but there is no other 
like The Lobster,, and that's saying something! 

The Lobster American 

15 6 West 45th Street 

Open from 11 A. M. until midnight 

No table d'hote dinner, but the a la carte menu is extraor- 
dinarily reasonable 

Maitre d' hotel: Max Fuchs 


Bringing Japan to fifty-Eighth Street 

When you get to feeling, gastronomically anyway, that 
all New York is just one large and lumbering table 
d'hote, a round of obsequious head-waiters and inferior 
salad dressings, shake off the lethargy, and try a dinner 
at the Miyako. 

No temple bells clang out as you wend your way 
far West on Fifty-eighth Street; no scent of cherry 
blossoms beckons. Instead, dirty little restaurants leer 
at you from every gloomy basement; stoutish ladies in- 
ventory you from comfortable rockers on their stoop 
tops, and brawling, bawling youngsters roller-skate over 
you. But don't be discouraged. Perhaps the approach 
to the Miyako is lacking a little in Oriental atmosphere; 
but the Suki-yaki and the puffed shrimps are every bit 
as tasty as any you ever ate at Mitsui's in Kobe. 

The Miyako holds forth in what was once a splendid, 
private brownstone mansion, as the high, muraled, Louis 
the Fifteenth ceilings attest to this day. Chubby, Ruben- 
esque flesh-and-gilt angels flutter over you; soft-footed, 
white-coated Japs hover about you, but you find your 


table for yourself. Later, when you have paid your check 
a check that looks every inch a laundry ticket a 
polite Japanese waiter will lead you to the door, holding it 
open for you, and bowing you respectfully out into the 

At the Miyako, you have your choice of forty-six 
dishes, leading all the way from soup to what they 
humorously refer to as dessert. And the Miyako deals 
exclusively in Japanese fare. There are no American 
dishes for the timid adventurer. Here, you will eat 
your beef Suki-yaki, your Satsuma-Jiru, your Umani, 
cooked with Shoyu and you'll like it. Soft-stepping, 
fleet-footed waiters appear out of the nowhere, bearing 
bamboo shoots, mushrooms, bean curd, sea-weeds, and 
strips of red, raw beef. From out of the nowhere, also, 
there appears a "kitchenette size" gas stove and it is 
connected right at your table. Affectionately, ceremoni- 
ously, your waiters place the vegetables in a deep frying 
pan on the stove, and while you eat your steaming 
Kenchin (vegetable soup) out of an ebony bowl, thin 
as an egg shell, your Suki-yaki purrs and sputters and 
gives off an aroma to quicken the appetite of a dyspeptic. 

In a trice, the pieces of raw beef are added, and in 
no longer than it takes to tell it, your Suki-yaki is ready; 
the gas is turned low under the sputtering pan; you are 
handed a small, deep bowl and a pair of chopsticks (forks 
on request, for the timid), a huge, red-lined ebony bowl 
of rice, and your adventure waits but to be consum- 
mated. Nor is the Suki-yaki your only way out. There 
is Mushi-Zakana, which is steamed fish with rice and 
Shoyu sauce; Tempura, which is huge, puffed, fried 
shrimps; Unagi-Domburi, which is steamed rice with 
broiled Eel and Tare sauce, and finally, there is, for 


dessert, Yokan, which is red bean cake with Bengal, and 
which you'll find far more reminiscent of Kirkman's 
laundry soap than of anything else. You will probably 
be thoroughly satisfied, even if you don't order the 

On the whole, you will enjoy the Miyako: its queru- 
lous white patrons, its confident Japanese patrons, and 
chiefly, its happy unconcern over any of its patrons. 
At the Miyako you shift for yourself, and ask for what 
you want if you don't see it. And try the chopsticks. 
Everybody does once! 

Miyako Japanese 

340 West 5 8 tb Street 

Table d'hote dinner, $1.50. Also a la carte, and two can 
eat sufficiently for $3.00 or less 

All native dishes are explained fully on the menus from 
luhich you order by number 


In the Manner of the East 

Not so old as the Japanese establishment of Miyako, 
but every bit as popular, is the upstairs restaurant of 
Daruma. Nor is there much difference between the two 
in food, in methods of service, in anything for that 
matter, except convenience of location. Daruma, being 
nearer to the theater district, is more inclined to attract 
a clientele of timid adventurers who have heard all 
about beef Suki-yaki, but who have never tasted any. 
Gay, spirited, nice little ladies from Suburbia, who get 

their chopsticks all mixed up with the chains of their 
lorgnettes, chitter and frolic gaily as their white-coated, 
soft-footed attendant a Japanese youth who, if the 
truth were known, speaks better English than the 
majority of his thoroughly American patrons and reads 
better books lovingly lifts the component parts of 
their Suki-yaki into the sizzling chafing dish right on 
their table; and in none-too-dulcet tones, they simper 
openly, and wonder if the place is really clean never- 
theless, eating their shrimps and rice attentively! 

Yet the kitchen of Daruma is cleaner than most, the 
service as good as the best, and the atmosphere as inter- 
esting as any. Here too, beef or chicken Suki-yaki, made 
at your table, is the specialty. The food is delightful; 
the practice of concocting it right out in the open like 
that is unique; the explanations as to what each item 
actually consists of are inclined to be a little hazy, but 
the results are invariably the basis of home-table con- 
versation for the ensuing week. You'll simply love 
Daruma, really you will. 

Daruma Japanese 

1145 Sixth Avenue 

No table d'hote dinner, but nothing even begins to be 


Open for luncheon, dinner and late supper 

Flavor of Roses 

West of Broadway in Forty-eighth Street, a dingy little 
red sign swings high over the stoop of an erstwhile 


aristocratic brownstone front. Upstairs you find The 
Rajah, about as big as a medium-sized clothes-press, and 
not nearly so sanitary; but you're in Turkey now and 
if you were terribly fussy, you wouldn't have gone to 
Turkey in the first place. Besides, the food is worth 
the trip. 

What if Sahib Khan Ali Roud has a glass eye? Sup- 
pose this sheik does violate all your preconceptions of 
Eastern potentates by appearing in suspenders and last 
week's shirt? Rest safe in our assurance that the ex- 
perience and the food are both worth it. The table 
d'hote starts with Tamarind a lemon-colored drink 
made from vegetables as an appetizer. A watery, albeit 
true-to-type, native soup follows. Then, the real business 
of the Turkish dinner sets in. Choose lamb, chicken, or 
beef curry oh, such a fiery curry sauce! A heaping 
plate of rice with an ample portion of cabbage is placed 
beside your curry. The trick is to pour your curried 
meat into the little well of the rice, mix thoroughly, and 
then enjoy. 

There will also be a tempting soupgon of East Indian 
relish, again with curry sauce. And to cool it, a glass of 
non-fermented rose-leaf wine, which is the real thing 
from pressed rose-leaves. In Turkey, when fermented, 
this substitutes very nicely for what is known in other 
lands as strong drink. It is far more palatable than 
Tamarind, which you won't do any more than taste 
that is if you're like us, with a regular American palate. 
For dessert always an inconsiderable factor in an 
Oriental meal there are cakes made of crushed nuts, 
or smaller cakes made of Turkish almond paste, plus that 
truly delightful Turkish coffee. It is in their coffee 
that the Turks make up for all other shortcomings at 


the finish of a meal. Turkish coffee has already been 
sweetened, with honey, and if you should stir it with 
your teaspoon you're lost. You'll find it is composed 
chiefly of coffee-grounds, which, when allowed to settle, 
disappear accommodatingly out of your way. Should 
you, however, arouse their evil propensities with a brutal 
teaspoon, they make a pretty terrible drink. 

The interior of the Rajah gives the impression of 
Turkey; rugs soften the walls; incense rises in pungent 
blue wisps from incense burners; red lights glow in 
unexpected corners; and there is an unforgettable bird, 
no larger than a toy parrot, which suddenly shrieks every 
now and then, scaring you out of your wits. 

You'll enjoy your dinner, speculating about the other 
queer-looking diners, and learn, astonishingly enough, 
that all sheiks don't wear goatees, ride white horses and 
brandish swords. And lest you become alarmed, the 
odor that permeates the Rajah isn't what you think at all. 
It's Myrrh, and quite legitimate too. 

The Rajah Turkish (Parsee) 

237 West 48th Street 

Table d'hote, $1.00; a la carte (native) dishes most 

Open for luncheon and dinner 


Shadow of the Jungfrau 

If you have ever been even for the briefest visit 
to Switzerland: to Zurich, Geneva, or Lucerne, you have, 


at one time or another, commented on the fact that the 
food served you was either poetically good or, para- 
doxically, bad. The reason for this as you probably 
learned on your second visit is that the best food to be 
found in all of Switzerland is concocted under the 
loving eye of the best chefs that have ever come out of 
France. The poor food is simply the work of local talent. 

Somehow or other, the Swiss, ever content with their 
Choucroute Garnie Frankfurt Luchow's would tell you 
this is simply sauerkraut and sausages their West- 
phalia hams, and plenty of alps to climb, have devoted 
little or no time to perfecting a cuisine of their own, 
at least a cuisine that might be something to enthuse 
over. Hence, travelers eat some of the best French 
specialties they've ever tasted, in the towering shadow 
of the Jungfrau. 

Consequently, a person sophisticated in the ways of 
dining, would visit New York's Chalet Suisse and dine 
amply and happily on all French fare. Nor is it that 
the Chalet Suisse isn't just as Swiss as its name would 
have you believe. It is Swiss from Herr Baertschi, the 
affable host, right down to the item which you'll find 
on the luncheon menus, which is, if you can't guess, Suri 
Laeberle mit roesti g' schnitzlets. Nevertheless, Herr 
Baertschi knows his patrons, to say nothing of his geog- 
raphy. At the Chalet Suisse, the cuisine is French and 
delectably fine. 

The Chalet Suisse nestles modestly, the center of a 
veritable caldron of competition, on the erstwhile 
swanky Fifty-second Street. Along its walls are huge 
murals where there is no smoked oak paneling depict- 
ing a Lilliput Lake at Geneva, the Jungfrau at sun-down, 
or sun-up, yodelers in the act of yodeling, and other 


traditional Swiss scenes. A very comfortable room it 
is, too, making you yearn for the days when beer was 
beer, fellowship was fellowship, and leisure was leisure. 

But what the Chalet Suisse lacks in beer it makes up 
in lamb chops, fragrantly aromatic with garlic, spar- 
ingly applied, and garnished with parsley butter; in 
cold crab meat Ravigote; in a cream-and-onion salad 
dressing that makes you note the address of this restau- 
rant in your address book. If the hors d'oeuvres are 
sketchy, what matter, when the Coup Chalet is the 
tasties composite of ice cream, chocolate sauce, whipped 
cream and Marron Glace, that you've ever played the 
gourmand over in your life. And this, mind you, all 
this, is only part of the table d'hote dinner for which 
you pay a mere $1.25, and for which you would gladly 
pay four times that. 

If you expect and demand genuine Swiss food at a 
genuine Swiss Chalet, then there is always luncheon- 
time, and Berner Platte, and Choucroute, and Frank - 
furts, and mild, dark beer to wash it down with, and a 
leisurely, friendly room in which to sit and contemplate 

The Chalet Suisse Franco-Swiss 

45 West 52nd Street 

Table d'hote, $1.25 

Open for luncheon and dinner 

Proprietor: Herr Baertschi 


Mother Sweden 

In Manhattan's East Forty-sixth Street, where padlocks 
grow on every other door, and the saloons that once 
flourished on the corners now thrive all through the 
middle of the block, you'll find the Swedish Inn tucked 
in between dark, gloomy, brownstone houses on the 
east and west, nestling above a much swankier street-level 
restaurant like the pinnacle jewel in a crown. 

Here, on the second floor, overlooking a forlorn garden 
in the rear, is the Swedish Inn. Small red tables harmon- 
ize happily with the world's loudest, most garish wall- 
paper, blend cheerfully with the prints of old Sweden 
that dot the walls, and clash consciously with the roman- 
striped cushions on the wall seats. But for all of that, 
you'll like the charming, midget intimacy of the place, 
the "linger on" atmosphere that impregnates the little 
room. And you're welcome to linger on as long as you 
like. The Swedish Inn is small almost tiny and it 
really isn't so much to look at; and the Smorgasbord, so 
far as variety goes, isn't to be compared with the Smor- 
gasbord of the Wivel, the Swedish Inn's competitor 
across town but then, the places are different. 

The Swedish Inn is homey, and the food that you get 
there is homey, and certainly delicious. The pickled 
Tuna fish, and the vinegared herring are everything the 
variest gourmet might expect, but the parsleyed chicken, 
and the parsleyed lamb, and the Swedish apple-cake 
here's where the Swedish Inn excels. And if you're 
curious, your patient, big-boned, good-humored waitress 


will tell you how the things are made; tell you what they 
do to get the pork chops so crisply luscious; how the 
chicken, allowed to brown in a huge iron kettle, is then 
stuffed with parsley and smothered in a cup of butter- 
rich cream; how the flaky crust of the apple-cake repre- 
sents a full six hours' patient labor of love. Here, then, 
is a charming little Swedish home restaurant, with a 
luxuriously good dinner and for $1.00! 

The Swedish Inn Swedish 

145 East 46th Street 

Table d'hote dinner, $1.00. No a la carte menu 
Open for luncheon and dinner 

No music; no dancing and no Swedish Apple-Cake in 
America like it! 


Hail Teutonia 

Hungarian Goulash! Schinken Haxen mit Sauerkraut! 
Hasenpfeffer mit Knoedel! Names as strange and in- 
harmonious as the rasp of a file on a fingernail! Sauer- 
braten, Kalbsniernbraten, Bauernwurst mit Knoedel! 
Unmusical, albeit descriptive nomenclature guide- 
posts for the epicure in search of an evening of echte 
Deutsche provender delight after gustatorial delight, 
in the manner of Teutonia! 

The Blue Ribbon, excepting only the far-famed 
Luchow's, is to New York what the Universal is to Berlin. 
Heavy-footed waiters, in long white aprons and short 


black alpaca coats, barge weightily to and fro, bringing 
mysterious dishes with even more mysterious names to 
heavily spectacled, close-cropped customers who re- 
spond in single-syllabled gutturals. The Blue Ribbon 
has brought Germany to Forty-fourth Street! What 
begins as an unimpressive delicatessen counter beside the 
Forty-fourth Street entrance, expands as you enter and 
overflows into a huge downstairs room and an even 
larger room upstairs, spreading out before you as New 
York's finest German restaurant. And the adjective 
finest is wisely employed. 

For where else in all this great city will you find the 
pigs-knuckles and sauerkraut so tender and so tasty; 
the Marinierte herring and its running mate, the boiled 
potato, so reminiscent of Friedrichstrasse; or the knack - 
wurst vinaigrette so appetizing? Here the rafters ring 
in Teutonic appreciation of food a la the Fatherland; 
and the patrons who come in once, invariably come 

Then Blue Ribbon is essentially a comfortable place 
to have your dinner. Here then, is the epicurean head- 
quarters for many well-known Germans in New York. 
And very nearly every well-known German visitor to 
New York has indicated his pleasure in writing, has in- 
scribed a photograph in appreciation, and has returned 
at some later date, to see it hung, side by side with a 
thousand other photographs also of German celebrities, 
chiefly musical. On the walls, the divine Kreisler rubs 
autographs with Madame Schumann-Heink, and Herr 
Schroeder shares his wall space with Max Schmeling. 

While you eat the most toothsome cheese-cake ever, and 
wash it down with simply perfect coffee, ober-kellner 
Max (pronounced Mox), clad all in white, will bend 


over you familiarly; will tell you that the murals on 
the walls are taken from, or rather inspired by, the fairy 
tales of the Fatherland's H. H. Ewers, and executed by 
Loederer; that every German member of the Metro- 
politan in the past eight years has been a steady patron of 
the Blue Ribbon; that the Pommersche Gaensebrust, 
with hearts of artichoke, is not to be found elsewhere 
in all America; and finally, that the only reason he 
doesn't pack up and go home to Germany, is that the 
Blue Ribbon chef has left absolutely nothing for him 
to go home for. 

The Blue Ribbon Restaurant German 

145 West 44th Street 

No table d'hote, but two can eat abundantly and well 
for about $3.00 

Open all day and nearly all night 
Maitre d'hotel: Max 


The Sign Says Venice! 

Giolito's Garden is exactly the kind of place you have 
always expected to find in Venice, and consequently are 
delighted not to find, on your first trip there. Not that 
Giolito's isn't perfectly four-square and all right, because 
it is, but merely that proprietor Carlo Giolito has taken 
a place slightly smaller than Madison Square Garden and 
endeavored to provide it with a warm, Venetian at- 


mosphere. The result is all the esthetic warmth of a 
skating rink. Nevertheless, the ivy festooned balconies 
(when ivy is in season) are fetching; the splash of the 
fountain (also dependent upon the season and the mood 
of the Maestro) is pleasant; the balcony-encircled patio 
is intriguing in a nice, Cecil de Mille manner, and the 
Giolito fare is not to be improved upon. 

Also, Giolito has a happy little knack of making 
you think you're getting five and a half dollars' worth 
of dinner in your dollar-fifty table d'hote. With the 
elaborate table d'hote menu, your heavy-footed waiter 
also brings you an a la carte menu. Were you to order 
a la carte the same antipasto, Minestrone Milanese, crab 
meat au gratin but need we go on? that you get with 
your table d'hote would cost you five dollars and a 
half. A little mental arithmetic enables you to see the 
light in short order, and you go the way of the table 

Nor will you regret it. For as Italian table d'hotes go, 
Giolito, from a standpoint both of quality and quantity, 
is in a class by himself. His asparagus au parmesan is 
tasty; his chickens are well done; his spaghetti is tender; 
and his waiters, seeking ever to aid and abet a budding 
romance, are rarely, if ever, to be found. 

A little prodigious pounding on the table, alone will 
bring a waiter to you, and sometimes this is exactly as 
you like it. Giolito's is large and airy, with mottled 
stucco walls, huge, cavernous ceilings, and diminutive, 
wrought-iron wall lamps that are more arty than prac- 
tical. But it is rarely crowded, and its patrons speak in 
hushed whispers, and it is probably just the place to go 
when romance is aborning, or you've tickets to the Holly- 
wood, or the Rivoli, which are just around the corner. 


Also, if you are one of these people who shudder every 
time the phrase "table d'hote dinner" is mentioned, you'll 
find Giolito's Squab en cocotte Forestiere, his Supreme 
of Chicken Armenonville, and his Zabaglione even 
though it does cost a dollar well worth while. 

Giolito's Venetian Garden Italian 

240 West 52nd Street (Giolito's Roman Garden is on 
West 49th Street, but don't bother much about it. You 
can hardly tell the difference) 

Table d'hote dinner, $1.50. A la carte, frightfully ex- 

Open for luncheon and dinner 
Maitre d'hotel: Carlo 


Merry Miiscovite 

If a trifle uncertain as to what Russian restaurants are 
all about, you can drop in at the Russian Sadko, shake 
the good Russian hand of proprietor John Tischkewitz, 
and learn about Russian edibles from him. Seated at a 
comfortable little table, out of the glare of the multi- 
colored spotlights, you- may note the ceilings of un- 
varnished cedar, the wall-panels of bird's-eye maple, 
the rangy, Russian, gargantuan murals murals depict- 
ing figures quite like the Jack of Hearts on horseback. 
Fleet-footed Russian waiters in native dress whirl by, 
bearing surprising Russian mysteries, giving off wicked - 
looking blue flames. 


The Russian Sadko, according to proprietor Tisch- 
kewitz, was named after the Rimski-Korsakoff opera and 
specializes, rightfully enough, in Rimski-KorsakofPs 
favorite gustatorial delight Moscow Blini. And so you 
agree to try the Moscow Blini, listening to the plaintive 
strains of the Balalaika Orchestra while you wait for it. 

The serving of Moscow Blini includes all the ritual of 
the serving of Crepe Suzettes at Henri's, for like Crepe 
Suzettes, Moscow Blini is concocted at your very elbow. 
Soft-eyed waiters bring mysterious, covered dishes, ges- 
turing grandly. Attentively, proprietor Tischkewitz 
lifts half a dozen paper-thin pancakes from a steaming 
chafing dish. Taking them one at a time, he spreads 
each with a thin layer of fresh, succulent, Beluga Caviar; 
places one on top of the other, sandwich fashion; and 
adds a final pancake as a cover-all. Over this, he pours 
rich, sour cream, and, to top it off, a sauce of melted 
butter. This then, is the pancake delicacy of which 
Sadko, the traveling merchant, was known to eat forty 
at a sitting; and having tried it, his feat is understand- 
able. Never was a native dish more delicious. And 
while you eat it, the Russians sitting at the tables all 
around you singers, dancers, one-time Dukes and Barons 
watch you enviously, attentively, and wonder who 
you are, to rate such service. 

The Sadko is delightful and genuinely Russian; also 
it is quiet and just a little bit morose. Here, native Rus- 
sians come for their Beef a la Strogonoff , served flaming, 
their Shashlick Caucasky, their Borscht with Pirojok; 
their Blinchiki with cheese or apple jelly. And here too, 
come Americans, adventure bent, to sample the mys- 
terious delectables; to hear soft, plaintive Russian melo- 
dies; to stem their after-theater appetites with sand- 


wiches of caviar or imported Russian Sproti; with huge, 
amazing souffles, the like of which have never been seen 

At dinner, two people can do nicely for about four 
dollars and a half; after the theater, a course dinner for 
two runs well above ten dollars. 

The Russian Sadko Russian 

100 West 57th Street 

Table d'hote dinner, $1.50 

Open for luncheon, dinner and after-theater supper 

Dancing and Russian entertainment in the evening 

Minimum Charge, after 10.30 P. M. Week days, $2.00; 
Saturday, Sunday and Holidays, $3.00 

Maitre d'hotel: M. Tischkewitz 


The Old Gray Mare Ain't What She Used to Be! 

Your author, who hasn't even begun to gray at the 
temples, nevertheless, can remember when the name 
Beaux Arts, in restaurant circles, was assuredly a name 
to conjure with. Beaux Arts, to the epicure, meant a 
large, quiet, luxurious room, with a definite Parisian 
flavor; superb sauces; famed filets, and a clientele of 
well-fed old-timers whose names made history. But 
times have changed, and the Beaux Arts, without which 
no book on the restaurants of New York could possibly 
be complete, has changed with them. 


No longer does the two-by-four elevator crawl up, 
snail-like, to the Beaux Arts Grill. That's all over. A 
certain society woman, imbued with the idea that night 
life was the only life, undertook to put a little blue 
blood into the place. The comfortable fixings with 
which Beaux Arts had always been associated had to go. 
It was done over, in the gaudy, familiar, movie theater 
manner. There was a jazz band, a "girl" show, and all 
the trimmings, until one bright day the enforcement 
officers came along and clamped a nice big padlock on 
the place and the body and soul of Beaux Arts died. 

Only the chef and the name pulled through. And so, 
in fresh, enthusiastically gilt-and-black quarters in the 
basement of the same building, a new restaurant, with 
an old name and a host of old traditions, opened. And 
that is the Beaux Arts with which we are concerned at 
this writing. 

In the new Beaux Arts, only the name and the quality 
of the cuisine remain. A three-piece orchestra squeaks 
lamentably; a trio of poorly selected entertainers sing 
and gyrate on a two-penny dance floor for the edification 
of a few a very few guests. Smirking waiters hand 
you the most expensive menu in New York and stand by 
while you note, wide-eyed, that here a minute steak 
costs two dollars, a broiled spring chicken, which you're 
allowed to share with your companion, costs $3.50, an 
order of new string beans costs $.75. Then, when in 
righteous indignation, you rise and start to leave, your 
waiter, smirking even more, subtly, though unwillingly, 
hands you the menu for a special table d'hote dinner at 
$2.50 and you stay, just as he knows you will. 

And it is only this special table d'hote that gets 
Beaux Arts' name into this book. For, changed though 


the old place is, the cuisine continues perfection itself. 
Even though the half grapefruit on the menu turns out 
to be casaba melon (with no apology or explanation) ; 
even though the chocolate ice cream turns out to be 
coffee (no explanation or apology here either) ; even 
though your waiter leans all over you, passes things in 
front of you and on the whole makes himself thoroughly 
obnoxious, you're forced to admit that, as a whole, the 
Beaux Arts table d'hote is a genuine work of art. And 
it is! 

The crab meat a la Havanaise is something to remem- 
ber; the steak minute, with potatoes sautees, is just done 
enough, and tender enough, and juicy enough; the 
Waldorf salad is a masterly work; and the assorted hors 
d'oeuvres, which your waiter places before you and re- 
moves before you've even had a chance to try them, 
look grand. 

In short, the dinner is satisfying no end, even if the 
service, the entertainment (for which you will find a 
special tax on your check) and the a la carte prices, are 
unforgivable. The room is quiet, with but few patrons 
at a time, and these are chiefly gentlemen out for an 
evening's cavort with their secretaries, or with lady 
buyers from Des Moines, or with other gentlemen's wives. 
Beaux Arts offers a nice, exclusive, retreaty sort of 
rendezvous for casual diners who like lots of quiet with 
their consomme. And the food itself is well worth a 
visit here. Only, be warned, and demand the table 
d'hote dinner menu. You are not likely to even hear 
that there is such a thing, if you don't. 

Beaux Arts French 

80 West 40 th Street 


Open for luncheon, dinner and after-theater supper 

Table d'hote dinner, $2.50 
No cover charge 

Dancing and entertainment y but don't even think of 

C E S A R' S 

Bertini Beckons 

Bertini is very young and almost too shy to be Captain, 
even in so tiny a rendezvous as Cesar's; and yet Bertini 
is Captain there, and a very capable fellow too, we can 
tell you. It is Bertini who greets you as you step into 
Cesar's the only Cesar's in all New York that dares to 
spell it without the "a" before the "e" Bertini who 
swiftly whisks you to a tiny table in this coziest of rooms, 
who tells you that the specialty of the house is the table 
d'hote dinner, and who looks at you reprovingly when 
you suggest that maybe you'll try your hand at the Ossi 

Nevertheless, the Ossi Buchi (pronounced ah-see booh- 
kee) is exactly the thing to try at Cesar's. And, just in 
case we're anticipating you, perhaps we'd better explain 
that Ossi Buchi consists of the knuckle of of all things 
a calf; that there is no meat more tender, or more 
thoroughly enjoyable (including veal steak) ; and that 
nowhere in New York will you find it more understand- 
ingly and appetizingly prepared than here at Cesar's. 
It is brought to you steaming hot, en casserole, bedded 
down in carefully camouflaged, meltingly tender vege- 


tables, and surrounded with the flakiest of Risotto. Let 
those nine adventuresome ladies from Waukesha have 
their table d'hotes. You try the Ossi Buchi. 

And before it, you might try the hors d'oeuvres 
chopped tuna and onions, tiny pickled peppers that are 
sour as a dramatic critic with a headache, delightfully 
indigestible salami, and ravishing, equally indigestible 
slaw. And take your time, too, for Cesar's is about the 
coziest little restaurant in the town. With its thick 
carpet, its figured wall-paper, its Tom Thumb curtains, 
and its gleaming table-tops of snowy linen it's exactly 
the place to sit, and eat, and contemplate. But one of 
the things that you might just as well not contemplate 
is having a check cashed there! 

In the foyer of Cesar's, you'll find a huge, framed 
collection of checks that bounded right back in Senor 
Cesar's lap about three thousand dollars' worth of them, 
as graphic and chilling a display as ever has been seen. 
Contemplate on other matters then: on the goodness of 
the Ossi Buchi and the badness of the Continental 
coffee; on the tenderness of the spaghetti and the extreme 
youth and courtesy of the waiter who brings it; or on 
the huge, lean, hulking form of Tom Davin, the literary 
reviewer, or the slimmer form of Robert Rued, the scribe, 
both of whom you'll undoubtedly find tucked happily 
in a corner. 

Cesar's Restaurant Italian 

153 West 48 tb Street 

Table d'hote dinner, $1.25. A la carte items fairly ex- 
pensive Open for luncheon and dinner 

La C a pit an: Bertini 



All Is Lamb! 

If you are one of those fastidious epicureans to whom all 
things Armenian are Greek, and to whom Greek and 
Grease are synonyms, check your concepts with your 
hat, stick and poke bonnet and venture down to East 
Thirtieth Street for the Armenian dinner of your life! 

A mere hop, skip and jump east of Manhattan's bud- 
ding Fifth Avenue, on Thirtieth Street, the Bosporus 
Restaurant nestles placidly. Here, long-mustached, 
over-fed, ruddy-cheeked diners gather in hordes, and 
sing the praises of the Shish Kebab with orders and re- 
orders; here sprightly young things come to comment 
and stay to exclaim. For this is a corner of Armenia 
a bright, sparkling corner, with gleaming white table- 
cloths and no remote suggestion, even, of vegetables and 
sour cream! 

And here you may revel in genuine Armenian delica- 
cies, cooked up to Armenian tastes, rather than down 
to American conceptions. The Tass Kebab tender, 
juicy squares of lamb, pot-roasted with tomato sauce 
is a revelation; the Ajem Pilaff a delight; and the Boud 
Isgara something wholly new in lamb steaks. For at 
the Bosporus, all is lamb. There is lamb, fried, broiled, 
roasted, and served on skewers; there is fried lamb-liver; 
lamb rolled in parchment and served with Oriental 
spices; and lamb, breaded and roasted over coals. 

And with your lamb there is egg-plant, done in a 
thousand and one ways; there is Boulgour Pilaff, the 
national weakness of Armenia specially imported 


cracked wheat grains, sauted with fresh butter, and 
served with tomato sauce; there is rice, concocted in a 
hundred little-known ways; and there are desserts, the 
like of which you've never tasted, elsewhere. The trans- 
parent flakes, rolled and stuffed with chopped walnuts, 
and served with a generous helping of Kaymak, answers 
to the name of Checkme; the Turkish paste made with 
sasmen oil and sugar pistachio is called Tahin Helva. But 
neither the names nor the pronunciations need alarm you, 
for throughout your dinner, you will find the friendly, 
white-haired proprietor Yoakom Keussyian hovering 
helpfully at your elbow, painstakingly explaining this, 
enthusiastically suggesting that. And you'll love it. 

If you're truly courageous, you'll start right in with 
an Armenian appetizer and work your way right through 
to Oriental coffee (and you'd better not stir it, either) ; 
and when you've finished, you'll conclude that there is 
no better food to be had in all New York and possibly 
in Armenia either! 

The Bosporus Armenian 

6 East 3 Oth Street 

Table d'hote dinner served Saturday and Sunday only, 
$1.25; a la carte items amazingly inexpensive and 
they're explained in excellent English on the menu 

Open for luncheon and dinner, seven days a week 
Proprietor: M. Yoakom Keussyian 



Constantinople In Name Only 

We put it that way because when we were very young 
we were led to believe that Constantinople was really 
in Turkey, and that only things Turkish emanated from 
there. And here we go and learn that the above-men- 
tioned restaurant by that name isn't Turkish a-tall, a-tall, 
but Armenian. 

As to the Constantinople Restaurant itself: that is on 
East Thirtieth Street, doing its best, by sheer force of 
numbers along with the Bosporus to bring Armenia 
to midtown Manhattan. 

At the Constantinople and frankly, we like the 
Bosporus better they do a million and one things with 
lamb too; and some of them the stuffed lamb, for 
instance, which isn't stuffed at all, but rather, is cut into 
wee bits and laid tenderly on a pillow of highly spiced, 
unforgettable rice are worth going miles to get. The 
Mahlebi, which is corn-starch pudding as the Armenians 
do it, is excellent too; and the Oriental coffee is a joy. 
Otherwise, the Constantinople is a whole lot like the 
Bosporus, and we suggest that you allow about a month 
to lapse between visits to each. 

The Constantinople Armenian 

12 East 3 Oth Street 

Table d'hote dinner , $1.25; a la carte, inexpensive 
Open for luncheon and dinner 



Mr. Delmonico Turns in His Gravel 

You board a rumbling, antiquated Third Avenue El, 
or better yet, a taxi, and you travel in more or less com- 
fort to Chinatown's Pell Street. And when you reach 
it, squirming as it does, like a cork-screw, touching Mott 
Street here and Doyers Street there, you dumbly tell the 
driver "Number 24." Sooner or later you find it the 
Chinese Delmonico's, up over the Chinese Import House 
of Soy, Kee and Company. 

When you've plowed up the seven dozen pseudo- 
marble steps that lead to it Delmonico's, or no Del- 
monico's you find you're in the same kind of Chinese 
restaurant that literally gets in your hair uptown, down- 
town, and midtown. Delmonico's, or no Delmonico's, 
you observe that the tables are inlaid with Mother of 
Pearl, that the latest melody to be had from the auto- 
matic player piano was really out of vogue a year ago, 
that chop suey on Pell Street and chop suey on Fifty- 
ninth Street are one and the same, and that, finally, the 
only difference between the Chinese Delmonico's and 
Yoeng's, the Far East Garden, and Beem Nom Low's, 
is that this one is harder to get to. 

Nevertheless, and for some reason that has escaped 
us on each of three visits, the Chinese Delmonico's is 
famous through the city and that is why it gets its 
name in this book, and that's the only reason. Person- 
ally, we like the uptown Chow Meineries heaps better; 
we find that they're cleaner and much more accessible. 
But we're not the one to go busting traditions, exploding 


theories, or throwing ice-water on folk-lore. It may be 
the Chinese Delmonico's to a loving management, but 
to us it's a Chinese restaurant! 

The Chinese Delmonico's Chinese 

24 Pell Street 

Open for luncheon and dinner ' y with regular Chinese 


Vittles a la Russe 

The Russian Art Restaurant is already three years old, 
which is something of a record for Russian restaurants, 
and gives promise of holding forth for another three 
years or at least until this book gets into print. This, 
likely, because it has stuck close to its Balalaika orches- 
tra, its Borscht and its Beluga Caviar, and let its uptown 
contemporaries go the way of all jazz, table d'hote din- 
ners, and bus-boys who wear dinner-jackets. 

What we're trying to tell you is that the Russian Art 
Restaurant is truly, genuinely Russian, from kitchen 
to clientele; that the assorted entertainment is weepy, 
and Russian and sad; that the decorations are also Rus- 
sian, and gross, and a teeny-weeny bit bizarre. The 
waiters, too, are Russian, and for the most part 
blonde; and they wear native smocks, baggy trousers, 
and boots. The waitresses are buxom, dark, dressed in 
native attire also, and inclined to look as though they 
had just stepped out of a Shubert Operetta. 


There is a genuineness about the place that gets under 
your skin; a melancholia that makes you wish you had 
a stein of good, pre-war beer to weep into. Yes indeed, 
the Russian Art is real, and so are the plaintive, Russian 
entertainers who sing to you, the dancer who throws 
knives into dollar-bill targets with his mouth, and, the 
guitarist who roars his Gypsy numbers with a get-up- 
and-go in his voice that sends trickles of electricity all 
down your spine. 

The food here is good and also genuinely Russian. 
(At least, so we've been told.) 

Russians who like this sort of thing and it takes a 
true Russian to appreciate them tell us that the Bitochki 
with cream is immense; that Beef a la Strogonoff is the 
last word; and the Shashlick Karsky was never turned 
out better. For our own part, we can vouch for the 
Squab en Casserole a la Russe, the Russian Art Sand- 
wiches (with two kinds of caviar and don't let them 
give you the pressed caviar) , the tea, which is served in 
a glass, and the Russian Tart, which is somewhat remi- 
niscent of French Pastry. 

The Russian Art goes along quietly, under the Rus- 
sian eagle eye of one Monsieur Adolph, formerly of 
Delmonico's, Rector's, and more lately of Healy's. 

The Russian Art Restaurant Russian 

12th Street and 2nd Avenue 

Open for luncheon, dinner and after-theater supper 
A la carte, and moderate, too 
Dance if you like 
No cover charge 
Maitre d 9 hotel: Adolph 


Beyond the Alps Lies Fifty-Seventh Street! 

The Alps is the type of restaurant that is its own best 
advertisement. It is not gotten up to resemble the 
Marguery in Paris, the Universal in Berlin, or Hang Far 
Loo's in Chinatown. Rather, it has a fairly breath-taking 
atmosphere all its own an atmosphere that is quiet and 
continental, comfortable, and at once lavishly simple. 
An excellent cuisine marks it as unique; its nod in the 
direction of modernism is reminiscent of the grand 
lounge of the He De France; its enormously high ceil- 
ings give it grandeur; and the balcony that rims the 
main salon strikes you as being just the spot from which 
to see everything exciting that goes on below. 

The room is large and luxuriously carpeted; the 
murals, all of them wall-high, are soft and colorful and 
restful; peaceful scenes, by the elderly and astute John 
Salisbury, depicting the better-known lakes of Switzer- 
land. Where there are no murals on the walls there are 
mirrors; and high ceiling lights, tastefully modernistic, 
are long, tapering oblongs of scintillating crystal. 

In sum, there is a certain rich, rare luxury about the 
place that brands it as one you'll want to visit often; 
and, likely as not, you will; because the service at the 
Alps not alone measures up to the surroundings, but sur- 
passes them. Courteous, quiet waiters bring you crisp, 
delicious toasted French rolls; stand by attentively while 
you give your order; depart, and bring it to you swiftly. 

Here, the cherrystone clams are large and firm and 
iced to perfection; the crab meat au gratin is a little bet- 


ter, a little tastier than you're likely to come upon else- 
where; the Blue Plate dinners are more than mere collec- 
tions of edibles, served en masse; and the Oyster Bay 
asparagus with Hollandaise sauce is a challenge to 

The whiteness, the snowiness of the table-linen, and 
the sparkle of the table-ware, heightens your joy, whets 
your appetite, and contributes much to that ever-so-rare 
feeling of leisure and luxury and well-being. 

And when you've eaten wisely, and oh, so well, your 
waiter brings you, in truly Continental style, a little tray 
of after-dinner mints, of quill picks (we said it was 
continental) , and of matches for your unhurried after- 
dinner smoke; and the world looks bright and your com- 
panion looks beautiful in the soft, pastel glow, and the 
well-dressed, quiet people all around you look as though 
they honestly "belonged." 

Here, night after night, you'll see, among other 
notables, countless representatives of the quieter, swank- 
ier, more literary set. And over all hovers the soft- 
footed, bland, ever-smiling Peter Votsellos ex-Maitre 
d'hotel of the Esplanade present monarch of all he 
surveys at the Alps. There are other restaurants, gaudy, 
bizarre, quiet; but the Alps is a charming restaurant, and 
what more could anyone demand? 

The Alps French 

124 West 5Uh Street (also an entrance on 57th Street) 

Open for breakfast, luncheon and dinner 

Table d'hote dinner, $1.85 (and well worth it). A la 
carte menu reasonable 

Music (but no dancing) Maitre d'hotel: Peter 



What! No Bloater? 

Perhaps it's just as well that they serve no bloater at 
Ye Olde (with an "E") English Tea Room. (The sign 
on the outside reads "The English Tea Room and Chop 
House.") Bloater invariably arouses memories of Lon- 
don's Savoy Grill, on a chill bleak morning; memories of 
all-too-efficient waitresses who tell you that you mustn't 
smoke at breakfast; of stiff -collared, sour-visaged gentle- 
men with huge watch-chains and bad teeth, who glare 
at you if you should inadvertently whistle at the table, 
who hunch away from you suspiciously when you bid 
them the time of day. 

Yet, at Ye Olde English Tea Room, you have all the 
other essentials of a genuine old tea room, or "tea place" 
over seas. Oh, a very, very old tea place. 

Antiquated samplers line the walls; there are two old, 
comfortable, inviting fire-places, with their huge brass 
kettles polished till they shine; there's an old English 
sideboard, groaning under the weight of its load of old 
English china; there are old clocks (the mantle variety) , 
old tables (some of them in orange and blue) , and old 
Windsor chairs that do not match. 

The service china is heavy and cumbersome, and rem- 
iniscent of that little place on Birdcage Walk. Spotted 
here and there on the somber walls are old theater 
programs announcing Edwin Booth in Hamlet, and 
(Wednesday Evening) in Richard III. And the atmos- 
phere so still that you can hear an aitch drop. 


The food is perfectly in keeping. There is an ex- 
cellent table d'hote dinner, both for luncheon and 
dinner, which is no longer called a table d'hote, but rather 
a Blue Plate, and from which the management gener- 
ously deducts full twenty-cents if you are prone to do 
without your salad. The crab meat au gratin, with rice, 
is worthy of a higher price; the creamed eggs on toast 
also with rice are mysterious and delightful; and the 
sautee mushrooms are a treat. Between meals, or for 
light eating, there are incomparable waffles, flaky muf- 
fins, unequalled Brown Betty (which, rightfully, does 
not resemble bread pudding), and apple cobbler which 
should bring you in immediately. 

Here then, is the favorite rendezvous of so many well- 
known persons that listing them becomes a difficult 
matter. For Ye Olde English Tea Room draws such 
celebrities as Joseph Schildkraut, Libby Holman, Clifton 
Webb, Betty Starbuck, Lynne Fontanne, Alfred Lunt, 
Dorothea Chard, Robert Montgomery, and Ward More- 
house of the Evening Sun, who drops by casually to meet 
these ladies and gentlemen of the theater. 

It is a delightful, intimate little rendezvous, where you 
can sit apart from the turmoil of the world outside, and 
gather those thoughts you've been trying to collect. 

Ye Olde English Tea Room and Chop House English 
151 West 48th Street 

Extraordinary Blue Plates. Luncheon, $.80; Dinner, 
$1.00. The a la carte menu is most reasonable. 

Open for luncheon and dinner, and breakfast, if you 
get up that early 

Maitre d'hotel: Miss Berwin 



Smorgasbord With Music 

If you are one of those who prefer their Smorgasbord, 
you'll find the Phoenix Restaurant, like its uptown run- 
ning mate, the Wivel, a place where the Smorgasbord 
table groans under a load of mushrooms in jelly, stuffed 
celery, halved pickles, quartered pickles, and pickles 
sliced in eighths, pickled beets, slaw, smoked salmon, 
smoked herring in the raw, and such other indigestibles 
as world travelers tell us a native of Sweden would walk 
a mile for. Thus far, the Phoenix is purely Swedish. 

As to the rest of the Phoenix attributes, there is a 
seven-course dinner, which we've no mind to flatter; a 
three-piece stringed orchestra which we can say nothing 
nice about; fairly clumsy table service; and the finest 
Swedish black bread you've ever eaten. They have those 
brown, unbiteable Swedish crackers, too, but we've never 
been able to get very far with them, and you'll just have 
to find out for yourself whether or not they're as good 
as they look. All we know is that they are every bit 
as hard as they seem. 

The Phoenix table d'hote dinner is $1.75, with Smor- 
gasbord; without it, a mere $1.25. But without the 
Smorgasbord you might just as well stay home, because 
the Smorgasbord is what you go for in the first place. 

As in other Swedish restaurants, you are expected to 
help yourself to the Smorgasbord. So you take your own 
plate, saunter up to the huge table, trying to look as 
unconscious of being watched as you can and not too 
greedy and make the rounds, lighting on the things 


that look especially good to you. And if you think 
that selecting a tart from a tray of French pastry is 
difficult, wait till you confront your first layout of 
Smorgasbord ! 

Another rule of the house is that you rate as much 
Smorgasbord as you like, which means that you can 
and will come back for more again and again. In the 
face of the not too excellent dinner that follows, you're 
wise to do well by the Smorgasbord for about seventy 

There is no dance floor, and even if there were, the 
present orchestra wouldn't be much help. But the 
Smorgasbord! That's something! 

The Phoenix Swedish 

163 West 48th Street 

Table d'hote dinners at $1.25 (sans Smorgasbord) and 
$1.75 (with) 

Open for luncheon and dinner 


When Russian Nobles Get Together 

The Russian Kretchma is another Russian restaurant, 
and is positively the last Russian restaurant we'll tell you 
about. Nevertheless, the Kretchma belongs in this book. 
If anything, the Kretchma is more Russian than any of 
the really Russian restaurants that have gone before. 
Which means that the entertainment is sobbier, the dec- 
orations are more futuristic, the ventilation is less to be 


relied upon, and the proprietors shush you if, in the 
middle of a heart-felt solo, you should ask your com- 
panion for a match. 

What we mean is that, if the Russian Kretchma is an 
example, the Russians take their entertainment very, 
very seriously. A singer brooks no interruption, a gui- 
tarist brooks no interference, and a dancer brooks no 
opposition. Well, that's their affair. 

Anyway, the Kretchma is colorful, even to its clientele, 
who are, for the most part, gentlemen with long hair, 
ladies with short hair, and sad-eyed litterateurs with no 
hair but with ultra-thick spectacles. Here, waiters in 
Russian blouses wait on you (when they think of it) ; 
bring you flaming portions (the alcohol does it) of Beef 
a la Strogonoff; palm off pressed caviar on you if you 
let them; and ignore you when it suits their fancy. The 
room, dimly lighted, is down a deep flight of stairs, and 
is actually more Bohemian than any place we've ever 
fretted in. Nevertheless, we recommend it as an adven- 
ture that you won't forget; and if the huge, booming 
Basso, Adia Kouznetzoff, is on tap, you'll count the 
evening you spend here an adventure among adventures. 
You can dance, if you've a mind to, to Balalaika music, 
on a floor about as large and roomy as the average tele- 
phone booth. 

The Russian Kretchma Russian 

244 East 14th Street 

Open for luncheon, dinner, and after-theater supper 

Dance, if you must 

No cover charge, but a minimum food charge of $.75 

per person during the week, and $1.50 on Saturdays, 

Sundays and Holidays 



Tenderloin and Tempo 

There are grills to eat in and grills to dance in, but the 
Roosevelt Grill is the place where you may do both, and 
come out happily on top. Here you find a chef who 
knows his cook book and an orchestra that knows your 
tastes: good food, and music that has established a world- 
wide reputation for itself. 

Guy Lombardo and His Royal Canadians play nightly, 
and every owner of a radio set will tell you, if you give 
him even the slightest opportunity, that Guy Lombardo 
begins where most jazz dispensers leave off. Nor will 
he be exaggerating either. For Guy Lombardo goes in 
for softness that harmonizes with the night; for rhythm 
that is new, rather than noisy; for everything that most 
other orchestras seem to have forgotten, and that no 
other orchestra does nearly so well with the result that 
on the sheer quality of his music alone, he has attracted 
a clientele that swears by him rather than at him, and 
a following that is statewide, loyal, enthusiastic and 

At this point, if you're beginning to think this is a 
book about restaurants that allegedly we are writing, and 
that it's commencing to sound as though we had for- 
gotten our job, please understand that we haven't, and 
that we know we ought to be telling you about the fare, 
rather than the fanfare. 

And yet, no matter how excellent the fare, and it is 
genuinely excellent, it is the music that will first tempt 
you; from there on, it is up to the chef. And he does 


well, too. The breast of Guinea Hen, with grilled sweet 
potatoes, takes your mind off the music which is praise 
indeed; the Brochette of Lamb Kidneys, with an in- 
comparable deviled sauce, is a rare adventure; and for the 
after-theater snack, the Scotch Woodcock is rare as to 
flavor and reasonable as to price. 

The room itself, built in a sort of well formation, with 
a low, bowl-like balcony a few steps above the main 
room and dance floor, is comfortable, softly lighted and 
inviting. The guests comprise Lombardo enthusiasts, 
ladies'-wear buyers from the West; quarry-men from 
the East, and chiefly transients from the four corners 
of the country. If the gowns about you are a little 
unusual, remember that undoubtedly that's the way 
they're wearing them outside Manhattan; if the gentle- 
men look a little weary, remember that it's a wearying 
run in from Chicago; and if the younger element look 
as though they were having the time of their young 
lives, remember it's Lombardo's music! 

The Roosevelt Grill is a charming place to visit for 
dinner; is even more delightful for the after-theater bite 
and dance, and is, on the whole, to be recommended 
enthusiastically for either and for both. 

The Roosevelt Grill American 

Hotel Roosevelt 

45th Street and Madison Avenue 

Open for breakfast, luncheon, dinner and after-theater 
supper. A la carte and Blue 'Plate dinners are reasonable 

Cover charge, after 10 P. M., 2.00 
Maitre d'hotel: George 

For After-theater Table Reservations: Vanderbilt 9200 



Lamb Chops With an Air! 

Mr. Florenz Ziegfeld may have glorified the American 
flapper, but it remained for Mr. Jack Kennedy, whose 
Forty-fifth Street Chop House is well up on the list of 
all knowing epicures, to glorify the American beefsteak, 
to build a halo around the lamb chop, and to exalt the 

For nowhere is better good, red meat obtainable and 
in few places does one pay more for the privilege of 
enjoying it! Kennedy's is one of the old-time high spots 
in a city that is full of them a comfortable, companion- 
able, chop house with a never-failing clientele, a battery 
of never-hurrying waiters, red-checked table-cloths, and 
menus as long as your arm. But the meat dishes: the 
steaks, and chops, and the ravishing roasts, are the things 
to eat here. Steaks and chops come meltingly tender, 
dripping in butter and expertly seasoned; the Prime Ribs 
au Jus are done to just the proper turn; baked potatoes 
are large as a small ham; and the check for it all takes the 
heart completely out of a weak man, and gives even a 
strong one a bad minute. 

Around you, you'll see the bigwigs in the world of 
sportdom: gentlemen who talk about races as though 
they were playmates of the jockey (many of them ac- 
tually are) ; fight promoters and their young hopefuls, 
wise in the kind and the quality of food that puts back- 
bone where it's needed; newspapermen, smudged with 
the ink of the sports' department; and actors and ha- 
bitues of Times Square. The service is pretty slow; the 


prices are pretty steep; but the hearty food, both as to 
quality and quantity, can't be improved upon. And 
that gentleman who hies him yonder and about, who 
stops to crack a joke, hear a complaint, or backslap a 
friend that's mine host, Jack Kennedy himself! 

Kennedy's American 

121 West 45th Street 

No table d'hote. The a la carte items are expensive 

Open for hmcheon and dinner, with good fellowship 
running rife at each 

Maitre d } hotel: Jack Kennedy 


Pajamas on West 51st Street 

Buses may lumber by on Fifth Avenue a few steps east, 
and trucks may rumble through the block, but when 
you're in the Hawaiian Tea House, you're in Hawaii, 
and we defy seasoned Honolunatics to tell us different! 
For the Hawaiian Tea House, in a fitting frenzy of sun- 
burst curtains, cream walls and lovely waitresses who 
speak excellent English and wear fetching pajamas (in 
becoming blue), has caught the sunny spirit that the 
tourist advertisements have always led us to believe that 
Hawaii was simply full of. 

Everything in the Hawaiian Tea House, perched 
aloofly on the second floor of its new premises on Fifty- 
first Street, is like that. Miss Mary Wilder Gunn, the 


proprietress, smiles cheerfully at you; the waitresses 
beam merrily, and don't mind if you stare at their 
pajamas; the matted floor-coverings are native as any- 
thing, and the Curry (a la Honolulu) is a delight. The 
only reason we shan't go into the curry more deeply, is 
that a gentleman by the name of Don Blanding has 
written a descriptive little poem about it. Miss Gunn 
has published it, right out on the menu, and it tells 
everything. But, you read it: 

Honolulu Curry 

Chicken curry on mounds of rice . . . 
If you like curry, it's mighty nice 
With grated cocoanut, feathered down, 
Little green onions, frizzled brown, 
Nuts and the yolk of hardboiled eggs, 
Mango Chutney and garlic pegs, 
Anchovy paste and Bombay duck, 
Bits of bacon and Hindu truck, 
Minced green peppers and chow-chow too 
And anything else that occurs to you. 
Mix together ... a heaping plate, 
A dish for a blinking potentate! 

Anyway, there's the poem, and to borrow a line from 
it, nothing else really occurs to us except that perhaps 
the poem doesn't really do the curry justice after all. 
As we remember it, it was even better than that. 

The Hawaiian Tea Room is open for luncheon every 
day, and for dinner every day but Saturday and Sun- 
day. If you're thinking of dining the Bridge Club, or 
the Backgammon class, however, you'd better phone and 
make reservations first. The phone number is Volunteer 
3493. Incidentally, Miss Gunn will sell you some mar- 


velous Hawaiian jellies, all set and ready to take home, 
and even some choicy little K Lama Chutney Mats. 
You'll simply love this place really you will. 

The Hawaiian Tea House Haivaiian 

7 East 51st Street. Second Floor 

No table d'hote dinner, but the various curry dinners 
are most reasonably priced 

Open for luncheon and dinner daily, excepting Saturday 
and Sunday 

Maitre d' hot el (or what's the Hawaiian name for it?): 
Mary Wilder Gunn 


When the Check Is $27.00 Be Nonchalant! 

The next time your rich uncle comes down from Willi- 
mantic, and you're simply chafing to impress him with 
your French, take him to the Restaurant La Rue and 
maybe you'd better light your Murad in advance! For 
the La Rue is to dining what Tommy Hitchcock is to 
Polo. There'd be menus without the one, and matches 
without the other, but they wouldn't be the same. 

The La Rue reduces or maybe it raises the simple 
process of eating to a fine art, the process of service to 
a rite, and the process of paying for it all, to a privilege! 

The La Rue is a large, squarish, quiet, repressed sort 
of place a place with huge, ultra-modern kitchens, ice- 
boxes as large as modern-day living rooms, all-copper 
kitchenware, silver that assays plenty to the ton, linens 


that are linens, and fixtures that have been selected for 
their quality rather than for their effect. In short, the 
La Rue is that rare, rare restaurant where food is set 
above furniture; where the veriest connoisseur is put 
upon his mettle; and where, you may be certain, no mat- 
ter how much you know about ordering, the alert garc.on 
who takes your order knows just a little more. 

In the La Rue, there are hors d'oeuvres tables to de- 
light you, tables of Patisserie a la Maison to beguile you, 
and game presses to intrigue you. You order duck! 
All in good time your duck is brought you pinkishly 
perfect. The breast is neatly sliced upon your plate. 
And then, the remainder of the erstwhile happy Mallard 
is placed in the game press, bones and all, and slowly 
squeezed (or pressed, if you insist) so that no errant 
drop of the aromatic juice is left. The juice then is 
poured into a chafing dish all at your very elbow 
sauces and seasonings are added, and the resulting price- 
less gravy is then dipped tenderly over the sliced breast 
on your plate! 

There you have a ceremony that is more nearly a 
science! And so that nothing shall cool in the waiting, 
Monsieur Peter (he thinks of everything) has placed 
alcohol stoves on serving tables all about the room. And 
just in passing, this Monsieur Peter is the Monsieur Peter 
you think of in connection with the Piping Rock, with 
Woodmansten Inn, and with the dear, departed Polignac. 

Nor is this all that Monsieur Peter has up his well- 
turned sleeve The Elysian Cafe Diable brings with 
it another ritual. Coffee mere coffee is poured into 
a chafing dish. To this is added just the proper amount 
of Curacao, just the proper amount of brandy, a twist 
of orange peel and then? Voila! The whole is set to 


boiling, and when it has boiled just the proper length 
of time, the attentive Peter comes by, sniffs appraisingly, 
and proceeds affectionately to dip your Cafe Diable from 
the chafing dish to your cup! 

And so are most things prepared at the La Rue. Here, 
your oysters are not merely oysters; they are Robbin's 
Island Oysters (need we say more?). Your English 
Filet of Sole is Filet of Sole, rather than flounder; your 
ham, large as the flank of an ox, is wheeled to you on 
a big-boned tea-cart; and your pastry all made in the 
Patisserie kitchens on the premises is set before you 
with all the courtliness that Monsieur might assume in 
offering you the family crest! 

And the La Rue clientele is in keeping with the other 
of the La Rue graces. Smartly gowned ladies with 
lorgnettes, and gentlemen with collapsible hats; elderly 
ladies who show considerable back and altogether too 
much front, and mustached, well-fed gentlemen, smugly 
conscious of the good things that are to come; and the 
inevitable couple whose new Park Avenue apartment 
has gold ceilings and platinum water-taps. 

At the La Rue, the cuisine is incomparable; the prices 
are just shy of being staggering; the service is genuinely 
Continental and utterly satisfying, and the Baba au 
Rhum is something never to be forgotten! 

Restaurant La Rue French 

480 Park Avenue 

Open for luncheon and dinner 

A la carte (Two can dine well for about $12.00 yes, 
Twelve dollars) 

Maitre d'hotel: Peter 



Tables For Two Hundred! 

In an age when it is considered almost unethical mind 
you, we said almost unethical for a restaurateur to give 
his public good food and good entertainment, Will Oak- 
land's Terrace stands out like Fujiyama on a bas-relief 
map. For Will Oakland, who provides the most at- 
tractive entertainment in New York after the theater, 
also offers some of the city's best epicurean delights, 

It is a paradoxical institution, at best, rivalling the 
best restaurants the town affords one moment; compet- 
ing with the most hilarious of the night spots an hour 
later; a Broadway Institution, twenty feet east of Broad- 
way in location, and a thousand miles from it in clien- 
tele in short it's a genuine Broadway restaurant and 
night club, combining the best features of each and 
eliminating the objectionable features from both. 

At Will Oakland's, you can get a beefsteak plate that 
hasn't been equalled anywhere since the beloved Castle 
Cave and its world-famed beefsteak dinners disap- 
peared off the face of Manhattan a beefsteak plate that 
consists of small, juicy, meaty squares of beefsteak, done 
to a turn, dripping butter, and set on a foundation of 
mellow toast, the whole so temptingly tender that you 
wonder that you've never been to Oakland's Terrace 
before. And if you should comment on it, Mr. Oak- 
land the Will Oakland, whose golden tenor voice 
you've heard on the radio night after night will 


proudly tell you that his beefsteak chef was formerly 
with the far-famed Healy's. 

And if you think that a beefsteak plate isn't going 
to be enough, there's a whole dinner, appetizingly, deli- 
ciously prepared, that surrounds it a dinner that runs 
from fruit cocktail to demi-tasse a dinner that, to- 
gether with the colorful entertainment that comes with 
it, comprises the very best value in the town. 

Here, Earl Carpenter's orchestra will simply make 
you want to dance. (The dance floor is large, and 
roomy, and you can let yourself go to your heart's con- 
tent, too.) The charming Mollie O'Dougherty will 
beguile you with round, Irish eyes; twenty of the most 
beautiful young ladies extant will make you glad you 
came; and more than likely, Will Oakland will sing for 
you his famed "Let's Grow Old Together," which it 
has been his custom to sing nightly for the charming 
Mrs. Oakland, who is never far away. 

Unlike other night clubs and restaurants that offer 
entertainment, Will Oakland's is cool, well-ventilated, 
and softly lighted; the patrons are of Broadway but 
seldom from it; the atmosphere is charming, and homey 
and the cover-charge, which sets in after ten o'clock, 
is moderate. 

Here, during dinner, and after the theater, you'll see 
visiting celebrities: Will Oakland enthusiasts of old, and 
local wise-ones who know a good thing when they find 
it; people from out of town, dining comfortably, know- 
ing that at Will Oakland's no one is ever "gypped" or 
cheated; newspaper people, and columnists, and invar- 
iably, tucked off in a corner somewhere, a gay and giddy 
bridal party. You'll like Will Oakland's, and we 
heartily recommend it for food and frolic, too. 


Will Oakland's Terrace American 

51st Street and Broadway (a few steps east) 

Table d'hote dinner 9 #3.50 (with a show) 

Cover charge after 10 P. M., $1.50 week-nights; $2.00 
over the week-end. Open Sundays, too 

Maitre d' hot el: Will Oakland himself 


Once Aboard the Lugger 

The nicest part about the Ship Ahoy Chop House is that 
once there, you have all the thrill that comes with going 
to sea, and none of the necessity for fussing about your 
Mothersills! There is no motion to the Ship Ahoy, 
other than that on the part of the waiters, and yet, just 
take a look around! 

You enter from the street, via an honest-to-goodness 
teetering gang-plank. You choose the nearest life boat 
(you'll find it suspended immediately from the ceiling 
and a little bit difficult for stout ladies and gouty epicures 
to reach) ; you look out of Tom Thumb portholes on 
a water-color vista of wild waves (nice, well-behaved, 
stationary wild waves) ; and you dine 'neath the radi- 
ance of a genuine ship's lamp; and if that isn't plenty 
sea-going, well, just tell us what you expect without 
the necessity of having your passport vised. 

The Ship Ahoy is one of the few places this adven- 
turing author has ever been in, which has striven for 
an effect and has come off handsomely. Nothing is 


either overdone or underdone; and nowhere has the 
management overemphasized it. You can't help but 
sit right down and make up your mind that the Skipper 
of the Ship Ahoy is someone whose knowledge of the 
sea is more deeply rooted than a mere perusal of the 
"Visit the Antipodes" advertisements in The New 
Yorker! Here's a Skipper who has sailed salt-water. 

All of which reminds us that we've come near to for- 
getting that the Ship Ahoy is a restaurant, and not the 
beginning of a Cook's Tour. 

The sea-going effect at the Ship Ahoy stops with, or 
at, the food. There is a daily special, a perfectly land- 
lubberish turn-out, such as Yankee pot roast (Mon- 
days) ; corned beef and cabbage (Wednesdays) ; and 
not until Friday does it get around to such deep-sea 
items as clam chowder and fish (in season). 

Suffice to say, the food is good; the chicken a la king 
is better than good; the chopped sirloin steak with onions 
is better than that even, and the special Ship Ahoy Sand- 
wich is the best concoction you ever tasted after the 
theater. Also, everything is pretty reasonable, pretty 
atmospheric, and pretty much worth every second of 
the time you spend here. 

The Ship Ahoy Chop House American 

53 West 5 1st Street 

Table d'hote luncheon, $.65. Daily specials, $1.00 
A la carte menu most reasonable 

Open for luncheon, dinner and after-theater supper 
Maitre d'hotel: Mr. Burke 


"Where the Dietary Laws Are Strictly Observed 99 

Once upon a time there lived a man named Trotzky, 
and in the due course of time he had two sons. Even- 
tually, they both grew up. One raised a goatee, got all 
mixed up with the Soviet, went to Russia, and became 
a radical; the other didn't raise a goatee, got friendly 
with the garment workers of the world, and became a 
restaurateur. The second son appears to have profited 
by the experiences of the first. By keeping out of poli- 
tics he has kept in the swim. Trotzky's Restaurant is 
known today from Brooklyn to the Bronx. For 
Trotzky's is one of the few places in New York where 
unusually good food and a strict observance of the 
dietary laws goes hand in hand! 

Trotzky's is New York's premier kosher restaurant. 
Which merely means that here you eat foods that have 
been prepared in strict accordance with the sanitary laws 
laid down by prophets Mohammed and Moses, in the 
order named. Nor, as a 'great many people seem to 
think, has the word "kosher" any particular religious 
significance. Kosher foods are merely foods prepared 
along the lines of chemical common sense. Meat killed 
in accordance with the dietary laws, then, is "Kosher," 
or clean, which is what the word "kosher" means. There 
is a pretty sane, sensible, reason for each and every one 
of the dietary laws, and the products of a kosher kitchen 
are more a matter of what's right than what's rite! 

Trotzky's then, is a kosher restaurant. The fowl 
and flesh has been fresh-killed and bled; no butter is 


served with your meal; the waiters delight in sassing 
you back, which, evidently, the adherents of kosher 
cooking never trouble to resent; the dill pickles are gar- 
licy and grand; the pickled peppers are so much cay- 
enne; the noodle soup is a rich, riotous collection of 
tempting, tender noodles; the browned kasha is a treat, 
no matter where you worship; the gravies are rich; the 
chicken giblets delicious, albeit indigestible; and the 
lemon pie is the stuff to which paeans of praise are 

Trotzky's restaurant boasts of good food, low prices, 
and the renown rightly due the brother of a liberator. 
You'll find the clientele made up of gentlemen who 
tackle their vittles with audible gusto and take a hand- 
ful of tooth-picks on the way out; ladies given to em- 
bonpoint, gold teeth and expensive fur coats; and happy 
family gatherings, which, though they sleep in Brook- 
lyn or the Bronx, habitually eat at Trotzky's. Trotzky's 
is open every day of the week excepting Saturday, and 
has music every evening of the week excepting Friday. 
It's worth a visit. 

Trotzky's Kosher-] e^vish 

155 West 15th Street 

Open for breakfast, luncheon and dinner (daily, ex- 
cept Saturday) 

Table d'hote dinner, $1.25. Reasonable a la carte menu 
Music nightly (except Friday) 
Uaitre d'hotel: Trotzky 


Tradition Has Its Face Lifted! 

They do say, that long long ago, back in the days before 
this self-elected gourmet was old enough, or interested 
enough, to distinguish between a Clam Ancienne and 
a Coffee Profiterolle, a lady known simply and affec- 
tionately as Mrs. Mori, was wont to sit hard by the door- 
way of a little Italian restaurant down on Manhattan's 
Bleecker Street and pass a friendly time o' day with 
whomsoever came to sample of the Mori fare, while she 
made change in her lap. 

Being young, well-fed and otherwise totally disinter- 
ested in food and where to get it, we are not the one to 
vouch for this. As we grew older, and our appetite 
grew to require more and more pampering, we eventually 
did get around to Mori's. At that time, Mrs. Mori, aided 
and abetted by a cash-register, loomed large in the tiny 
room, and was a genial, gentle hostess. She was a wizard 
at banging out the correct number of nickels on the 
register, and death on lackadaisical waiters. 

By then, tradition had grown upon tradition, and 
Mori's Restaurant was as much of an institution as in- 
stallment-plan buying has come to be since. Then 
Mori's was the rendezvous of the discriminating diner; 
the hideaway of the poet and the dreamer; the last re- 
sort of that select little group of natural-born epicures 
who were more literary than affluent. Now, alas, prog- 
ress has once again caught up with Mori's, or maybe it 
is Mori's that has caught up with progress. The walls 
have been torn down, pushed back, and made formidable 


with stucco. Arches have replaced doors; a jazz or- 
chestra has replaced the quiet of yesteryear; the place 
teems with palms and pomposity and self -consciousness; 
and if it is true that the old order of things has changed 
and that the clientele of Mori's has changed with it, then 
it is probably because plumbers now reap a harvest, and 
poetry sells for a song. 

Nevertheless, Mori's and its brand new layout goes 
on and on more modern now than traditional, more 
changed than otherwise. Only the food remains the 
same; the Ravioli, as only the Mori kitchens could turn 
it out; the Veal Madera, with its mystic Mori sauce; the 
broiled, milk-fed chickens, and the Mori-made Zablagi- 
one that is so much sherried, Elysian froth. 

We weep for Mori's not for the food, which is as 
delectable and as much worth the trip to Bleecker Street 
today as it was ten years ago but for an old-timer gone 
modern, and wrong; for the Mori's that once was dusty, 
and friendly, and interesting and full of celebrities, and 
that now is neither dusty, nor friendly, nor interesting, 
nor full of celebrities, who doubtless can ill afford it. 

The tuneful little stringed orchestra is gone, along 
with the dust, and a jazz band, as we've noted before, 
now entertains the guests who, for the most part, are 
the types that need real jazz-band entertainment. Tra- 
dition, however, is hard to kill, and the traditions asso- 
ciated with Mori's go on and on, in spite of, rather than 
because of, modern architecture, modern music and 
modern prices. 

Mori's Italian 

144 Bleecker Street (at 6th Avenue) 

Open for luncheon and dinner 


A la carte. Two can eat here for about $6.00 


Maitre d'hotel: Mrs. Mori 


Where Men Are Men! 

If you'll listen, your grandfather will get started some 
of these nights on the path of pleasant reminiscences of 
New York. He'll tell you of Jack's and Rector's and 
Durland's; of Joel's that Joel Rinaldo, who, a few years 
ago, sadly looked his old room over, locked his doors for 
keeps, and hung a meek little hand-lettered sign in the 
window that read, "Closed: Without great financial suc- 
cess, but, I trust, with many good friends"; of Dewey's 
and of Haan's all favorites of two generations ago. 
And he'll probably go on and on down the line, and 
eventually, he'll tell you of Broad's. 

Broad's is one of the very few of the old-timers who 
hasn't bowed to inevitable progress. There are no gilt 
ceilings here, no Urban murals, no modernistic lighting 
effects, or pallid crooners. Broad's is one of those old- 
time Chop Houses where florid-cheeked, loose-jowled 
gentlemen drop in for a dozen oysters as an appetizer, 
a beefsteak as thick as a truckman's wrist, or a mutton 
chop as large as a small ham! Broad's Chop House is 
headquarters for hearty food in the manner of the 
Mauve Decade, and you can bless it if you want to. 

Here, the waiters part their hair dead center, and 
shave their necks, and walk with heavy tread; the table- 
wear is thick and substantial, and seldom has there been 


better good, rare meat. Luncheon time, particularly, is 
the time to come to Broad's. This is when those broad- 
beamed, apoplectic-looking gentlemen, who have been 
warned against heavy eating, whose complexions give 
away their rising blood-pressure, and whose knotty 
fingers decry their pious youth, order their massive 
steaks, their mounds of potatoes O'Brien, and their 
fresh-fruit pies in season. They gulp them down, and 
then sit leisurely, smoking their brazen, black cigars and 
drinking their coffee, as though they had all day to do 
it in! You'll not find better he-man food anywhere, 
and, despite the storied years of the past, they charge 
you little for the tradition that is part and parcel of 
the place. 

Broad's Chop House American 

53 West 3rd Street 

Open for luncheon and dinner 
A la carte and reasonable 


Haven of the Hot Tamale! 

Mexican restaurants have opened and closed. Spanish 
restaurants have opened noisily and closed quietly. 
Senors and Senoras and broad-beamed Westerners have 
clanked into dizzy little old New York and sought to 
startle it with their local version of the torrid tortilla 
and the fragrant frijole, only to disappear soon after 
with their fiery foods and their fervor. 


It remained for Mrs. Lee and her nearly-grown daugh- 
ter to come down out of the quiet complacency of a 
small New England town and show the gay caballeros 
how to do it. And she did. Mrs. Lee opened the Chili 
Villa. Together with her daughter, she painted it a 
vengeful vermilion, topping it off in black. She sent 
down to Mexico for the makings of her menu, and gave 
Broadway its first and lasting taste of Chili. 

For the Chili of Ma Lee is synthetic in no respect. Its 
ingredients are fresh-grown and not canned; it is the 
kind of chili that home-sick Westerners tell you about 
in pullman car smoking compartments, that traveling 
salesmen boast of having had in San Anton'! 

And that's just the way it is with everything served 
here. The Chili con Carne a meat and red bean con- 
coction is fiery and tasteful; the frijoles (with the 
J pronounced as though it weren't a J at all but an H) 
are the kind that those big, broad-sombrerod gentle- 
men from the wide open spaces are supposed to be 
weaned on; the tortillas, which are not so hot and con- 
sequently heaps more palatable to an effete Easterner, 
become pleasant pancakes under the watchful Lee eye; 
and the Mexican spiced chocolate is not only good, but 
good for you. When you've come through one, or the 
other, or all, of these, there is a grand and glorious "eight- 
fruit" cake, made without sugar and partaken of with- 
out regrets. 

As to the Chili Villa itself, the place is small, scrupu- 
lously tidy, and tremendously attractive. It opens at 
six-thirty in the evening for dinner, and remains open 
all the rest of the night for the benefit of those lusty 
souls who never seem to know when they've had enough. 
And on Friday nights, Ma Lee serves what is undoubt- 


edly the tastiest up -east chowder dinner you've ever 
heard tell of, including some of the finest Cape Cod 
clam chowder in the land. 

Ask to see the Celebrities Book, too, because on almost 
any night that you drop in you're likely to rub shoulders 
with some of them. 

The Chili Villa Mexican 

109 West 49th Street 

Open from 6.30 P. M. (note that it's P. M.) to 6 A. M. 

Table d'hote dinner Fridays, $1.75. Ala carte daily, and 

Maitre d'hotel: Mrs. Lee 


East Meets West On a Blue Plate! 

If you are one of those who simply can't help connect- 
ing the mere mention of something Japanese with Cactus 
plants in low, squat bowls, vaudeville magicians, and 
beef Suki-yaki, we urge that you drop in on the Yoshida 
Tea Room, which, in the final analysis, is not a mere tea 
room at all, and see how Eastern civilization has traveled 

For while the Yoshida Tea Room is, judging by all 
appearances, exactly the type of place in which you'd 
expect to find perfectly ravishing puffed shrimps and 
pickled fish, you are either doomed to disappointment 
or pleasureable surprise. The Yoshida Tea Room is 


owned by Japanese; it is run by Japanese; and it is 
manned by Japanese; but with the exception of chow 
mem, which is not Japanese but American-Chinese, any- 
way, there isn't a water-chestnut, a leek, or a bamboo 
shoot on the premises. 

What we're trying to tell you is that the Yoshida Tea 
Room specializes in thoroughly American, wholly famil- 
iar and exceptionally delightful Blue Plates; in such old 
stagers as Noisette of lamb, minute steak saute, pork 
chops and apple sauce, and veal tenderloins that are 
simply devastating. 

As for the place itself it is a low-ceilinged, jade- 
green room, just a few steps west of Fifth Avenue, hid- 
ing most of its light behind curtains that are down- 
right tea-roomy and discouraging to gentlemen who 
like plenty of chair to sit in, and plenty of room to move 
around in. 

Inside, you'll find a whole roomful of young, good- 
looking, superbly courteous Japs, green Windsor chairs, 
tricky little semi-stalls, which come about waist high, 
tables no larger than a dime, and loads and loads of 
people who are just as surprised as you are to find a 
Japanese restaurant without a single native dish on the 
menu. And when you get around to ordering, you'll 
find the Blue Plates included in the table d'hote dinner; 
the soup tasty (particularly the cream of mushroom) ; 
the side dishes ample, and the dessert a treat. There 
isn't a single instance of a dab of this or a dab of that 
anywhere during the dinner, proving, beyond the shadow 
of a doubt, that the Yoshida is not a tea room. 

Also, if you should visit the Yoshida, we urge that 
you try their special Japanese Orange Pekoe Tea, which 
gentle ladies from Suburbia, among others, will insist 


upon spoiling with the addition of cream and which 
should be taken plain. 

The Yoshida Tea Room American 

11 West 56th Street 

Open for luncheon and dinner 

Table d'hote dinner, $1.25. The a la carte menu is rea- 
sonable, but you won't want to bother with it. 

Maitre d'hotel: Yamata 


rf Une Express!" 

The windblown little sign that tells you it is Monsieur 
Chaflfard's restaurant creaks inconspicuously out of your 
line of vision, and unless you keep a sharp look-out, you 
are just as likely as not to miss the place entirely. The 
window is dull and drab the antithesis of all you've 
ever suspected a French restaurant to be; the approach 
is just as dull and just as drab, and once inside you find 
merely a few tables, a few old, shuffle-worn chairs, a 
long, time-worn leather wall-bench, and a tiled floor, 
worn and barren and plain. 

Surely, you reason, Chaffard's is totally unlike any 
other French restaurant you've ever been in in Amer- 
ica, of a certainty. And yet, Chaffard's is probably the 
most French, the most genuine of them all. For show 
counts for nothing with Poppa Chaffard. Chaflfard's 
is the French restaurant not of the boulevards, but 
of the side -streets an unconscious replica of the thou- 

sand and one Luigi's, Charles Sebillon's, and Cafe de 
Grammonts of Paris that travelers come back home and 
rave about. 

Here are no fancy fitments, no modernistic furbelows, 
no slim, lithe headwaiters with their waxed mustaches 
and military-school airs. Chaffard's is a French res- 
taurant of the people, rather than for the tourists a 
restaurant reminiscent of all the little side-street res- 
taurants of Paris, a restaurant where food counts for 
much and costs but little, a restaurant for epicures who 
appreciate the cuisine rather than display. 

In Chaffard's, the rotund, genial, plump-and-pink- 
f aced Monsieur Chaff ard himself, bows low to you, smil- 
ing the smile of a cherubim as you enter, leads you 
courteously to a comfortable seat on the worn leather 
wall-bench, turns you over ceremoniously to an equally 
rotund little waiter with pin-point eyes and a South-of- 
France accent, and hopes that all will be well. And at 
Chaffard's, you may rely upon it, all will be well. 

Certainly you are in for the best, genuinely French 
dinner you have had since you boarded your boat, home- 
ward bound, at Le Havre! 

There is the well-known leek and potato soup a 
soup of the consistency of milk and the goodness of a 
mild nectar; or there is the onion soup au gratin that, 
in Les Halles in Paris, has made Pere Tranquil famous. 
There is crab meat salad en Coquille crab meat, mixed 
with green peppers, seasoned to taste, and served, as they 
serve it in Pruneiers, on polished shells. There is a pork 
chop, large and tender Pork Chop Gastronome which 
means smothered in mushrooms, and with a piquant 
pickle sauce the like of which can't be described in 
unfeeling printer's ink; or a roast shoulder of veal, 


roasted to the pink of perfection, and served with an 
order of spinach au gratin that puts the plebeian spinach 
in a new light. There is a genuine Liver Pate; or Calf's 
Head Vinaigrette, or luscious, tender larded beef an 
otherwise unknown quantity here in America. 

The Tripe a la Mode de Caen is just as delicious as 
any that ever was served at the Cafe Pharamond, and 
on Tuesdays and Fridays there are Moule Mariniere that 
you'll long remember. For an appetizer, there is genuine 
Pate de foie Gras Strassbourg, or Salmi Saucisson de 
Aries; and for dessert, there is Bar-le-duc with cream 
cheese, or Nesselrode Pudding, or a generous helping 
of Roquefort cheese, or genuine Port de Salut or, if 
you know your native French restaurants, a whole ap- 
ple or pear, to peel painstakingly and quarter at your 

And to top it all off, there is French coffee the native 
"Express" made by compressing steam through cold 
grounds and resulting in an essence and a brew, which, 
served piping hot in a glass, is nectar, if ever there was 

As you loll back, contented, and sip your French cof- 
fee or your Mazagran, you'll note all about you, native 
Frenchmen and Frenchwomen, and a thousand and one 
New Yorkers whose names are known to fame. 

Pere Chaff ard greets all with equal, earnest, cordiality, 
and escorts them to the bare little room we have de- 
scribed, or to a gaudier, more esthetic little room, with 
cozy nooks, and genuine oil paintings, on the floor above. 
And in either place, you can sit and eat exceptional 
French food, served by servile, friendly French waiters, 
in an honest-to-goodness atmosphere of bourgeoise 
France. If the author were asked to name his favorite 


half-dozen restaurants in New York, Chaffard's would 
come well within the first three! 

Chaffard's French 

232 Seventh Avenue 

Open for luncheon and dinner 

Table d'hote luncheon, $.60. Dinner, $1.25. The a la 
carte menu is amazingly reasonable 

Maitre d'hotel: Monsieur Chaff 'ard himself 



MaxPs Braustiiberl modestly tells you, on the business 
card that a buxom blonde hands you as you leave, that 
it is a "House of Pleasure and Joy," and that "All Others 
Are Imitators." We can vouch, at first hand, for the 
first claim. Maxl's is a house of pleasure and joy. How- 
ever, we aren't sufficiently devoted to Bavarian beer and 
Deutsche folk songs to want to bother checking up on 
the veracity of the second. 

Nevertheless, don't even think of missing Maxl's. It 
is a restaurant, a night club, and an experience, all 
rolled up in one and seasoned with frequent renditions 
of "Schnitzelbank." From the outside, MaxPs is a peace- 
ful German cottage, vine-hung, cozy and inviting. The 
inside is something else again. 

Once inside, a Deutsche Kerl, in corduroy knee-pants, 
while balancing sixteen steins of tasty beer in one hand, 
will, with the other, gracefully point out an uninhabited 


spot where you may sit. That is, he'll show you to a 
table provided that the large college-boy clientele have 
overlooked one. If they haven't, you stand waiting and 
like it. And the perfectly extraordinary thing about it 
is that you do like it! 

Maxl's is colorful, popular, and noisy. Heaven knows 
that Maxl's is noisy. Arrayed like a genuine German 
beer garden, it is decorated with steins, allegedly humor- 
ous drawings, and the same kind of peaceful-looking, 
cottage windows that gave you the wrong impression 
from the outside. 

There is a stringy three-piece orchestra, which stops 
every other moment to drink and sing a toast to each 
newcomer an orchestra with a temperamental leader, 
who assists in grinding out well-known German ditties 
and resents all verbal college-boy intrusions; and there 
is "Happy," a three-hundred-pound play-boy who, 
dressed up in knee-pants and Alpine hat reminiscent of 
a Swiss yodeler, knows all the words of all the songs. 

Everybody joins in everything at Maxl's, and if you 
don't know a soul when you come in, you'll know every- 
body before you go out. 

The German food the sausages, the frankfurters and 
sauerkraut, the fresh, creamy schweitzer-kase, and the 
Westphalia ham are superb; the pretzels that come with 
your beer appear to whet your appetite, rather than to 
appease it, and the rye-bread sandwiches are a delight. 

In football season, when the teams and the cheering 
sections are in town, Maxl's is just a little bit strenuous 
for anyone who isn't up on forward-passing a frank- 
furter and making headway through center, but when 
once the cheering sectors have gone back to Syracuse 
and New Haven and Pittsburgh, Maxl's reverts to nor- 


mal. The orchestra wears an expression of profound 
relief, and fun is the order of the evening. Try MaxFs, 
either for dinner, when all is food and good food, 
too or after the theater, when all is frolic. You'll 
probably like it at both times. 

Maxl's Braustilberl German 

243 East 86th Street 

Open for luncheon, dinner and after-theater supper 

A la carte, and reasonable, all excepting the beer ($.50 
per glass) 

Maitre d'hotel: "Happy" 


Henri's (With an "I") 

Henri's is French in name, pastry and salad dressing. 
Also, it is French in the delightful obliviousness of its 
waiters to the well-dressed gentlemen and smartly- 
gowned ladies who spoon softly, albeit quite publicly, 
in the comfortable quiet of the balcony that hovers over 
the pastry shop below. 

Here you'll find food that is incomparable, and a 
clientele discreetly quiet a clientele consisting of lav- 
ishly groomed women who drive up in Packards and 
send their Jameses and their Hawkinses across the street 
to a beanery to eat, of bright-eyed ladies who have just 
gone from Park Avenue into the publicity business, and 
of staid, austere, business gentlemen who wear black rib- 
bons on their pince nez and gardenias in their lapels. 


For Henri is an old name and a revered one; an old in- 
stitution and a widely-known one; a grand rendezvous, 
and a discreet one. 

Hors d'oeuvres unfamilar dabs of unexcelled good- 
ness may be had in an amazing variety. The Potage 
Longchamps in itself is worth the visit; and the Capon 
Croquettes with bacon and broccoli Mornay, the spring 
chicken Cocotte Mascotte, and a hundred and one in- 
triguing salads with even more intriguing dresses, is posi- 
tive balm to a restaurant-fed soul. 

For sheer excellence of cuisine, you can't do much 
better than Henri's, no matter how far you go. The 
service is wholly efficient and, as we told you before 

Also, and despite the fact that Henri's is a thoroughly 
French restaurant, having heard some of the aforemen- 
tioned ladies attempt the menu in what they were con- 
fident was French, we suggest that you just go right 
along and place your order in good old English, which, 
at least, is a language that even a French waiter can 

And don't forget to round the dinner out with pastry 
for where all other Patisserie ends is where the product 
of the Henri pastry chef begins. Henri's pastry is as 
famous as his name, and that's saying something. Ac- 
tually, that's saying everything! 

Henri's Trench 

40 West 46th Street 

Open for luncheon and dinner 
A la carte, and not inexpensive 

Maitre d'hotel: ]acque 



A Divan, By Any Other Name 

The Divan Parisian is the quiet, calm, utterly restful 
sort of place whose existence most native New Yorkers 
are unaware of, and most visitors to New York would 
never expect to find here. 

For the reason that it is quiet, both as to decoration 
and clientele so unreasonably, unexpectedly quiet 
you leave, positive that that handsome little brunette, 
over in the corner there with the gentlemen with the 
Peter Arno mustache, must be his stenographer, and 
couldn't be his wife. 

The room is long; the ceiling is high; the walls a sooth- 
ing cream-color, and the wall seats, set back in com- 
fortable, friendly little booths, are deeply cushioned, and 
inordinately restful. A thick floor-carpet deadens the 
footfalls of the alert waiters, whose steps would prob- 
ably be just as inaudible without it, and the cozy, amber 
lights cast a dim, friendly ray, conducive to rest and 

Here the business men of the neighborhood come to 
eat, and stay to relax; and business men of other neigh- 
borhoods come to meet lovely ladies who wear orchids 
and are obviously not their wives. 

The food at the Divan Parisien is superb, although 
there is no price -penalty for the privilege of dining here. 
The Salpicon of Rice with Lamb Saute Egyptienne is 
a conquest for connoisseurs; the shirred eggs with sau- 
sages, a dish a la Maison that you simply can't find else- 


where, and that you'd hurry to, if you could; and the 
Finnan Haddie Mornay with creamed chicory might only 
be described satisfactorily with more adjectives than 
there is room for here. 

For dessert, there is a delicious Coupe Divan Parisien, 
your choice of a hundred tempting tid-bits of French 
pastry, or a caramel custard that to its credit tastes 
like no other custard you've ever tasted. And for all 
this the service, the inimitable food and the luxuriously 
placid atmosphere the prices are more reasonable than 
you'd have reason to expect or hope for. There are a 
hundred reasons, and all of them good ones, as to why 
you should, and doubtless will, like the Divan Parisien 
... to say nothing of the more conservative Beverly 
Divan (which is under the same management and re- 
mains open on Sundays), where the food, the service 
and the quiet are an exact counterpart. 

The Divan Parisien French 

17 East 45th Street 

Open for luncheon and dinner daily, except Sundays 

A la carte, and surprisingly reasonable 
* * * * 

The Beverly Divan French 

125 East 50th Street 

Open for luncheon and dinner daily, including Sundays 
A la carte, and prices on a scale with the Divan Parisien 
Maitre d'hotel: John, formerly of Delmonico's 



Hungarian Rhapsody In Blue 

Head north! Leave Broadway, with its milling mobs, 
its bright lights, and its incessant babble; pass up Park 
Avenue, with its scintillating stiff shirt-fronts; forego 
the side streets, with their speak-easies, their parking- 
problems and their table d'hotes. 

Direct your taxi-driver northward up Fifth Avenue 
across One Hundred and Tenth Street Little Spain 
up Seventh Avenue to the border-line of Harlem, and 
then, on One Hundred and Sixteenth Street, veer east- 
ward sharply to number one hundred and seventy-two. 

Walk up one flight of steep sharp steps into a low, 
smoky, crowded room. A plump, pink-cheeked little 
lady in the garb of an Hungarian peasant will take your 
hat. A courteous, wrinkled little maitre d'hotel, like- 
wise garbed, will show you to a tiny table. Sit down, 
breathe easily, and relax; this is the Gypsy Camp. 

Around you, totally oblivious of your presence, you'll 
find gay, young, foreign-looking couples spooning right 
out in the open; sad-eyed, older couples, less colorfully 
clad, sit pensively, and listen, wide-eyed and reminiscent, 
to the exquisite strains of the Blue Danube as played 
with soul and feeling by a pale-faced, long-haired, gifted 

A sloe-eyed waiter, in native garb, with an accent 
so thick that you can cut it, will take your order. 

There's Vienna Schnitzel, such as you've never tasted 
before; there's chicken paprika, or veal paprika; there 
is sauerkraut, fixed with mohn, to lend it flavor (as 


though sauerkraut at the Gypsy Camp needed anything 
to give it flavor) ; and there is the most marvelous 
apple-strudel you've ever had true, genuine, Hungar- 
ian strudel. They are all genuine Hungarian dishes, 
served in the most genuine atmosphere this side of Chez 
Louis on the de Surene in Paris. 

Your waiter bows low and disappears. The violinist 
plays an encore, and then another, and another; a hun- 
dred voices, clear, smooth, obliviously unconscious of 
other voices, cheer and beg for more. The pale-faced 
violinist bows gratefully, backs his way slowly to the 
orchestra stand, raises his arms, inclines his head, and 
suddenly the orchestra bursts forth in the wildest, most 
stirring Czardas you've ever heard. In another moment 
you forget you're on One Hundred and Sixteenth Street; 
you might just as well be in Hungary. 

The dance floor becomes a maze of happy, light- 
hearted, singing, chanting couples, bobbing up and 
down to the swift, rhythmic strains of peppy, catchy 
melody. Lights dim; the music waxes faster and more 
furious; jolly voices rise in native lyrics; this is Hungary! 

The Gypsy Camp is one of the realest places in New 
York, restfully, riotously, unabashedly real a relief 
from the synthetic jollity in those places which bend 
over backwards to sell atmosphere to a clientele that 
wouldn't know the genuine from the spurious. The 
food is good; you forget that the service isn't; the music 
is worthy of more lavish surroundings; and jazz is a 
rarity. Here you'll hear all the old Hungarian musical 
favorites, all the dreamy waltzes from operettas of an- 
other day, the favorites of a nation that was born with 
music in its soul. And if you like to watch the other 
half, you'll simply love the Gypsy Camp. 


The Gypsy Camp Hungarian 

17 2 East 11 6th Street 

Open for luncheon, dinner and after-theater supper 

A la carte, with a minimum food charge of $2.00 per 
person after 10 P. M. 

Music and dancing 

Wherein a Young Author Goes on About His 

Business . . . and Leaves the Matter of Traditions 

to the Historians 

If the oldest restaurants in New York are not all to be 
found on Manhattan's Fulton Street, then at least some 
of the most traditional ones are. You learn this after 
visiting a mere two or three, noting how each maitre 
d'hotel you come to is utterly willing to rattle a few 
family skeletons for you. 

Which all goes to prove that Fulton Street is rich in 
restaurants which, in turn, are rich in history, which 
makes it a job more suited to the historian, than to a 
scribe on a still-hunt for adventures purely epicurean. 


Willard's, the original established back in 1909 by a 
gentleman who came out of the wide open spaces of New 
York State, is not alone one of the best-known restaurants 
in the city, but the largest in down-town New York as 
well. It got along just as Napoleon claimed an army 


got along chiefly on the stomachs of its patrons. Which 
is merely by way of saying that the elder Whyte realized 
that it took more than modernistic lighting effects and 
pretty cigaret-girls to make a restaurant. Mister Whyte 
gave New York some of the best food ever set before 
it, and reaped, in return, a reputation that has been fol- 
lowed by its present owner. The original and now more 
expensive Whyte's has moved all the way uptown to 521 
Fifth Avenue. 

Willard's Fulton Street restaurant, under the loving 
eye of the elder Whyte himself, and, since that good 
gentleman's demise, under the capable eye of the alert 
Billy Brockwell, has thrived. It has added a floor above, 
enlarged its main floor, and taken on the cellar below, 
until today there is a dining room for gentlemen on the 
main floor, a grill in the basement, and a dining-room 
for ladies, one flight up. 

And all through the establishment you'll find among 
its patrons those men whose names are by -words in the 
world of finance and business. As we've already told 
you, Willard's is one of the most thoroughly worthwhile 
restaurants in New York. 

Willard's American 

145 Fulton Street 

The original and a thoroughly swanky Whyte's is now 
located at 521 Fifth Avenue 

A la carte, and fairly expensive 
Maitre d'botel: Billy Brockwell 



As you spread your way past the busy, old-time roast- 
counter of Haan's and make for the rear, you will notice 
an elderly, Beau Brummel type of gentleman, enjoying 
his luncheon at one of the smaller tables at one side. 
We must tell you this because it appears that this gentle- 
man is almost part and parcel of the tradition that appar- 
ently surrounds Haan's as thoroughly and as completely 
as a London fog surrounds Piccadilly Circus. Inquire 
about him, and you'll learn that his name is Simon Nus- 
baum; that he is the man who first introduced bank- 
soliciting and the new-business departments into Ameri- 
can banks; that he is eighty-four years old and can still 
climb stairs three at a time; and that and here's the 
point he has been lunching in Haan's daily since the 
time when a visit to Forty-second Street was considered 
an all-day jaunt, and Trinity church-yard was a re- 
spected burial ground rather than the picnic grounds it 
is today. This, in itself, is enough to convince you that 
Haan's must be a pretty good place for a person to eat 
in. And it is. 

It is quieter than most of the down-town places 
quieter, and a little more aloof. And if you've been 
hustling and bustling all morning amid the canyons of 
lower New York, you'll welcome its quiet; you'll revel 
in its old-fashioned method of showing you your roast 
first, and slicing it to suit your taste; and you'll warm 
to its old-fashioned ways of doing. Here, things 
are solid, and old, and stout, and the food is exception- 
ally good and generous as to portion. And among its 
noon-day clientele, you'll find many more like the well- 


preserved Simon Nusbaum bankers, brokers, and ty- 
coons of trade, who have come back, day after day, 
year after year, and decade after decade. And in these 
times, that practically tells you everything you ought 
to know about a restaurant. 

Haan's American 

290 Broadway (at Keade Street) 

Open for luncheon only 

A la carte, and not too reasonable 


Rolfe's Chop House started on John Street, where a 
number of the good restaurants had their beginnings, 
so many years ago that it gives you a headache merely 
to contemplate all the changes that have occurred since 
then. Here, in the old days when an importer's job 
was as much a matter of brawn as brain, the giants of 
industry would gather in their mellow, cheerful circles 
and over their steins of musty old ale, would laugh till 
the rafters rang, over the traveling salesmen's equiva- 
lents of that day. Those, to hear any genuine old-timer 
tell it, were indubitably the days when beer and ale 
were drunk on the table instead of under it, and a man 
had time to listen to a story. 

Now, Rolfe's has sobered somewhat. The hard- 
headed, high-handed, square-fisted old-timers are 
swivel-chairing it behind mahogany desks, pressing but- 
tons, and drinking malted milks in a day of softer men 
and harder competition, when a good restaurant is sim- 


ply a place to go for food. However, much of the old 
system carries on. At Rolfe's, you select your cut of 
roast from a chunk as big as the side of an ox, and your 
chops, double-thick, are cut expressly to your order. 
Your waiters are slow but thorough; your neighbors, 
well-fed business men, who'd rather eat a dozen Blue 
Points at Rolfe's, than a twelve-course dinner at the 

Here, everything is big, and bulky, and comfortable, 
and old-fashioned everything, that is, except the 
prices, which, oddly enough, have managed rather nicely 
to keep abreast of the times. 

Rolfe's Chop House American 

90 Fulton Street 

Open for luncheon only 

A la carte, and fairly expensive 
Maitre d f hotel: 


Excellence, Elegance, Extravagance! 

The first place that anyone who has been in Paris for 
longer than three days points out to the new arrival is 
the little, low-hung, ordinary-appearing restaurant ren- 
dezvous of native epicures, well down on the Boulevarde 
Des Italiennes. "That," your self-appointed guide will 
whisper to you with bated breath "that's Marguery's." 
And when you look dumb new arrivals in Paris who 
can't assimilate all the folk-lore that is poured into their 
poor protesting ears from the moment they step aboard 


the boat-train always look dumb your guide will look 
surprised. "Why, Marguery's . . . you know . . . 
the fellow who invented Filet of Sole Marguery . . . 
for goodness sake!'* And then, if you don't look at 
your self-appointed guide with your soul in your eyes, 
and bate your own breath, and utter a quick, aston- 
ished, "No! You don't tell me!" he'll be hurt for the 
rest of the evening. 

But you needn't go to Paris to visit Marguery's, unless 
you like boat-travel, for the Marguery's on New York's 
very own Park Avenue has more sumptuousness and 
elegance in one moment than the Parisian original has 
known in its long life! 

Here, Filet of Sole Marguery isn't a simple gourmetic 
delight, but an investment. Here is glory, and grandeur, 
and a restaurant full of the appreciative people who 
live in the expensive quarters upstairs, and pay fabulous 
rentals, and look bored over their Filet of Sole chiefly 
because they can afford to! 

Marguery's, on Park Avenue, quiet and impressively 
grand, is a restaurant that bears out in every detail its 
Louis the XVI furnishings. It is a place that immediately 
brings to mind the glory of dead kings, live princes of 
industry, and fussy diners who know first-rate cuisine 
when they look for it, and can afford to pay for it when 
they find it. Here, at Marguery's, your dinner becomes 
an adventure rather than a mere repast. It is all per- 
fection, but, to repeat, it's expensive. 

The Marguery French 

270 Park Avenue 
A la carte and expensive 
Matt re d* hot el: Ercole Marchiseo 



Sherry's is another name that has outlived the days of 
earlier elegance, and, keeping within the plumb of 
progress, has expanded, has waxed more glorious, more 
scintillating, and more selective. Along with Pierre's, 
folk-lore has it that no debutante has really, genuinely 
come out who doesn't make her debut at an expensive 
party here, and that no party that doesn't run well above 
fifty-thousand dollars in cost is really a success. But 
that, as we told you, is simply folk-lore. 

Sherry's, now on Park Avenue, is a study in lavish- 
ness, luxury, and black-and-white marble; in galleries 
and marble facades; in grandiloquence and grandeur. 
Nor has its social slip that little commercial gesture 
which, a few years ago, put several Sherry branches prac- 
tically on a competitive basis with Schrafft's and Park 
and Tilford's (sodas, chocolates and sandwiches) 
seemed to hurt it any. It is still one of the swankiest, 
bluest-blooded institutions in America. Its cuisine is 
nothing short of noble; the astute surveillance of Maitre 
d'hotel Grandmougin is nothing short of sublime, and 
its prices are nothing short of an adventure in high 

Sherry's French 

3 00 Park Avenue 

A la carte and expensive 
Open for luncheon and dinner 

Maitre d' hotel: Lawrence Grandmougin 



You enter Pierre's through a simple foyer, between 
ebony-black marble columns. If you wish, you rest 
comfortably in a period chair in a large, roomy sort of 
reception room, and there you give your order to an 
attentive, alert waiter. And then you walk nonchalantly 
into a long, high-ceilinged, regal room, cleverly dec- 
orated to direct attention from itself and to its wholly 
distinguished clientele. For Pierre's has become famous, 
not so much by reason of what you see there but who, 
not for decoration but for distinction; and there is no 
more distinguished gathering to be found in all New 
York, than you can come upon in Pierre's, of an eve- 
ning. Here, one meets the more exclusive, less sociable, 
and less frequently-seen members of the original four 
hundred, to whom the quiet reserve of the gay, but 
far-from-gaudy salle-a-manger, appeals. 

The cuisine at Pierre's is just as French as the name 
implies and places Pierre's at the very head of the list 
of fine French restaurants that have, in the course of 
time, migrated to America, and lost nothing in the 
migration. It is useless to tell you what is good. Every- 
thing is good. As a matter of fact, everything is not 
merely good, but really supreme! 

Pierre's French 

290 Park Avenue 

A la carte, and expensive 
Open for luncheon and dinner 

Maitre d'hotel: Charles Silvani 


Thus have we covered the Incomparable Three. In 
visiting Sherry's, the Marguery, and Pierre's, of an eve- 
ning, it is imperative that you dress. Also, if you are 
planning on dinner for more than four, it might be well 
to arrange the menu, by telephone or in person, some 
few hours before. 

The Playground of the Rich! 

They will tell you if you let them that the Claremont 
Inn, perched high above Riverside Drive, a stone's throw 
from Grant's Tomb, and that far-famed "Grave of an 
Amiable Child," and immediately opposite the cold, 
gray walls of the Palisades (on summer nights, when 
sailors are loose and ferries are frequent, you get a grand 
view from here of Palisades Park all lighted up and 
twinkling) , was once the headquarters of George Wash- 
ington. You will learn also that, with the exception of 
having its roof repaired a couple of times and having 
the leaky spots re-plastered, it hasn't changed much, 
and that here the General would sit, entirely surrounded 
by his aides, and draw his plans for the next day's 

Anyway, such is the history of the Claremont Inn. 
All we know is that the Claremont Inn, although it 
appears to be the lonesomest spot in town, with hardly 
ever more than a handful of expensive automobiles out 
front, has survived nobly, and is, today, one of the 


finest restaurants and the most expensive in New 

Here, the very best and tastiest foods that you have 
ever partaken of anywhere else, come even better. And 
here too, if you're properly adventurous, you can meet 
with culinary concoctions that you've never heard of 
before. You'll find the most architecturally and gas- 
tronomically perfect planked steak in all New York; 
the most marvelous Turtle Soup L'Anglaise you've ever 
tasted; salads, the freshness of which simply overwhelm 
you, and a special Claremont Inn interpretation of Sal- 
mon Steak en Gelee that would inspire awe in a Robot. 

On a gentle, wilting summer's day, your table is 
spread on the broad ample veranda (make sure it's on 
the side facing the river), where breezes never seem to 
tire. You can loll back luxuriously, while zephyrs rustle 
through your hair, and between the soup and the roast, 
the salad and the fromage, watch snooty little tugs 
puff up and down the river, dodging in and out among 
a perfect maze of ferries, battleships, and square-rig- 
gers in the coastal lumber service. 

Around you, for the most part, you will find expen- 
sively-gowned women and well-groomed men, and 
noticeably among them parched, dust-caked motorists, 
stopping off for profiteroles and lemonade between traf- 
fic lights. 

An altogether delightful place is the Claremont Inn 
a place which, considering the business end of the menu, 
makes you wish a little wistfully that you had been born 
with a bright business instinct instead of an artistic 

The Claremont Inn French 

Riverside Drive and 126th Street 


Open for luncheon, dinner and after-theater supper 
A la carte and you'd better come on ^ay-day 
Maitre d y hotel: Henri 


In the Manner of the Fashionable Fifties 

The L'Aiglon is not only a fine restaurant, but a most 
fashionable rendezvous. Here, the best-dressed ladies 
and gentlemen of the socially elect foregather nightly. 
Lights cast a warm, friendly glow on beautiful women 
in evening clothes and their full-dressed consorts; con- 
versation is low and inaudible ; service is meticulous ; and 
you'll order in French and French only! 

The L'Aiglon is smart; the L'Aiglon's clientele is 
smart; the L'Aiglon's cuisine is smart, and the L'Aiglon's 
interior decorator is even smarter. For the L'Aiglon's 
decorative effects have been so contrived that Madame 
appears actually to look her best when she feels her 
worst! The lights glow warmly, so that no one looks, 
pallid in their glare; the Empire panelings are soft and 
cool and harmonious; and, wonder of wonders, the 
waiters all appear to be there for your benefit, rather 
than their own. 

The room is airy and high and dignified and im- 
pressive; the carpets are deep and luxurious; the service 
swift and not at all self-conscious; and the food is some- 
thing to long remember! 

In short, there is nothing even slightly synthetic about 
the L'Aiglon socially, or otherwise. 

The Filet of Sole Bon Femme brings to your table 

genuine English sole; the Tornado is tender, luscious 
and neither overdone nor underdone; the pomme 
souffles aren't to be found elsewhere in town; the salad 
dressing particularly the Roquefort dressing is a 
masterpiece, and the fruit tarts and Patisserie are a pastry 
chef's labor of love. 

All of which, unfortunately, brings us down to the 
check, which would be exhorbitant in most places, and 
is merely commensurate with the quality of the cuisine, 
at L'Aiglon. 

Here, at one time or another, you'll see the "Who's 
Who" of Park Avenue and its adjacent thoroughfares 
those ladies and gentlemen who make the L'Aiglon their 
rendezvous on their stop-overs between Asheville and 
Palm Beach. On your second visit, the ever- alert Joseph 
will call you promptly by name; will endeavor, if pos- 
sible, to give you the same places you had the first time; 
and will leave nothing undone in order to make you 
feel that, in truth, the world is yours. 

L'Aiglon French 

13 East 5 5 tb Street 

Open for luncheon and dinner 
A la carte, and expensive 
Maitre d'hotel: Joseph 


Manna for the Merchants 

It's an idiosyncrasy of this "Bagdad on the Subway" 
(O. Henry thought of that first) that any restaurant 


which has been able to stall off its creditors and survive 
the ravages of time for five years at least immediately 
takes its place as a revered institution of the period when 
plumbing was not so much to talk about, and Fifth 
Avenue coaches were horse-drawn. 

Any institution which has thus coursed down the 
ages becomes befogged with a glamour that it doesn't 
necessarily rate. Enshrined on a pedestal, where it 
doesn't belong, it is the subject of much parlor reminisc- 
ing, which may be no end boring to the present genera- 
tion who can, all on its own, still remember when saloons 
were on the corner instead of in the middle of the block. 

Anyway, Billy The Oysterman takes its place in the 
vanguard of the real old regulars. Its internals are 
woody and smoky; its furnishings comfortable rather 
than classy; its waiters lumbering and loquacious; and its 
clientele portly and polyglot. Lumbering silk merchants, 
ample a-midriff, sit with skinny factory managers at 
congenial, oversized round tables; tobacco dealers loll 
comfortably in arm-chairs and discuss the market with 
bright-eyed insurance men; out-of-town buyers, towed 
in by local bigwigs, look abashed and uncomfortable in 
this rendezvous of the important; and bright-faced, 
young men try diligently to look as though they be- 
longed here. 

The tart, penetrating smoke of a thousand expensive 
cigars hangs over both floors of Billy's like a pall. Thou- 
sands are talked of here as carelessly as are nickels in an 
Automat; and at the noon hour, Big Business in person, 
groans under the right regal weight of a bowl of stewed 
tripe, a dozen of Billy's giant blue-points, and an order 
of pie, so ample that it would constitute an entire dinner 
for a lesser man. 


Once Billy's was little more than an Oyster bar; later 
a bar of another feather was added. The oysters and 
the free lunch assumed proportions; Billy assumed the 
risk; and the merchants of the neighborhood, Billy's 
habitual customers, assumed that there never was an- 
other place just like it. And so has Billy The Oyster- 
man prospered, and grown smoky, and bulbous, and 
pompous, and traditional. 

Today, the tripe and the stews and the boiled beef 
with horse-radish sauce have become by-words; the 
original Oyster and Roister bars have become a legend 
(but not too much of a legend, until the Prohibition 
Director got wind of what was going on not long ago 
and made these things purely legendary), and Billy 
The Oysterman has become a place to visit. If you like 
good, ample, wholesome foods, sans frills and furbelows, 
you'll find it here. 

Billy the Oysterman American 

7 East 20th Street 

Open for luncheon and dinner 
A la carte and fairly expensive 
Maitre d'hotel: Fred 


Poets, Peasants and Publicists! 

On the border of Greenwich Village near enough to 
attract a bustling Village trade, and far enough away 
to charge substantial prices is the restaurant of Charles. 
At Charles, famous now for a decade, you can get your 


breakfast at the noon-hour, your luncheon and dinner 
in one, and, lounging back comfortably on a cushioned 
wall-seat, you can, in typically French fashion, take 
your time at any hour. 

For Charles is a French restaurant, run in the French 
manner, rather than in the manner of some of its up- 
town competitors who think that a French name and a 
table d'hote dinner are synonyms, and that a dab of 
this and another little dab of that make a multi-course 

Charles is a French restaurant but French! in both 
food and fact. The food, the finest examples on the 
whole of French cuisine in these parts, is excellent; the 
waiters are courteous and efficient; and the prices are 
commensurate with its location, as we already have told 

Here, of a noon, when the business men of the neigh- 
borhood have left with their smelly cigars and their 
strictly bourgeois babble, you'll find poets and dreamers 
and advertising writers at breakfast. At this time, too, 
come gentle ladies who have ventured over from the 
new, swanky, lower-Fifth Avenue apartments and 
apartment hotels, young ladies but recently from Vir- 
ginia, who have decided to chance all for art, and old 
ladies with their inevitable Pomeranians and lorgnettes, 
who have come to see if the young ones are as bad or 
as bold as they've been painted. 

Here, too, at noon-time or evening, you'll find any 
number of excellent Blue Plates, and pastries that only 
a Rumpelmeyer could rival: grape and strawberry tarts 
(the season be darned), chocolate leaves, petit fours and 
cream-sticks that make you regret you didn't start off 
with dessert first. The broiled lobsters are an adven- 


ture; the scallops are small and sweet; the lamb-chops, 
done to exactly the proper turn, are served in little frilled 
French panties; and the French pancakes are sublime. 

The room is large, and rambling and squat, and best 
of all, leisurely to a fault; you don't tip the waiter 
(there's a ten percent surcharge on your check) ; and 
you don't even try to hurry him. 

And at the counter, immediately opposite the door, 
you can buy any make of imported or domestic cig- 
arette you've ever heard of, from Abdullah's, to Akbar's; 
and the more difficult to pronounce and high-sounding 
the ones you want are, the more surely you'll find them. 

The atmosphere is literary almost sapping, it's so 
literary literary with the bubbling, bibbering conver- 
sation of a thousand poets, a thousand advertising copy- 
writers, a thousand advertising artists, and a countless 
thousand aspiring children of the five arts. Come late, 
linger long, partake of Charles' marvelous food in leisure, 
and enjoy yourself, in the manner of Mont Parnasse! 

Charles French 

452 Sixth Avenue (near llth Street) 

Table d'hote, a la carte and Blue Plates, all at fairly 
reasonable prices 

Open for breakfast, luncheon and dinner 
Maitre d'hotel: Henri 


Russian But Regal 

Soft, amber lights flicker dully as you enter; a waitress, 


in the costume of a Russian Peasant and with the gra- 
ciousness of a Russian Princess, shows you to a charm- 
ing, pillow-strewn wall-seat, behind a red-topped table; 
soft Russian music thrums through the dimly lighted 
room, and a full-throated singer chants soft, plaintive 
Gypsy wails. This, then, is the Samarkand, Delmonico 
of all Russian restaurants, and as different from all of 
them as Park Avenue is from Tenth. 

Around you, meticulously-dressed couples speak in 
dulcet tones, made softer by the rug-and-tapestry-hung 
walls. Graceful amber lamps shed a gentle, kindly light 
on as cosmopolitan a group of diners as you'll find in 
all New York; and you lounge back on your pillows, 
happy, comfortable, a million miles from noise, bustle, 
confusion, and stentorian-voiced entertainers. 

This, then, is the Samarkand a restaurant where 
atmosphere, service, and food are genuinely continental; 
where hurry is unknown, where every corner reveals a 
new charm, where waitresses are soft-voiced, and the 
ebony-black table-ware adds incentive to a dinner that 
really needs none! There is no Russian restaurant in all 
New York like this no restaurant of any nationality 
quite like this one. For here, charm is not a kin-spirit 
of costliness; breeding is inherent, rather than acquired; 
and you are judged on your behavior, rather than the 
fulness of your bank-roll. No obsequious Franco-Hun- 
garian headwaiter smirks patronizingly, and leads you 
off to a lonesome, far-off corner; no waitress is obviously 
above you; and there is no tax for the tactfulness and 
taste with which your meal is served. A truly charming 
place, this Samarkand. 

Of an afternoon, you can tea there a la Samovar; 
at noon-time, you can enjoy a leisurely table d'hote 


luncheon, and sit by peacefully and listen to one of 
the quietest Balalaika orchestras you've ever heard. At 
dinner, you can enjoy a marvelously concocted table 
d'hote, or a multitude of items a la carte, and you can 
take your time, and sit listening to the program of the 
Moscow Art Players, rendered feelingly and softly, until 
ten o'clock, when it's high time to be up-and-doing any- 
way. The menus are far more reminiscent of France 
than of Russia; the food is exceptional, the atmosphere 
perfect, and the attitude of those whose duty it is to 
make your evening one of sheer delight, is charming. 
What more can one ask, in a busy, bustling city dedi- 
cated to speed, sport, pseudo-elegance, snooty head- 
waiters, supercilious captains and surface swank? 

The Samarkand Russian 

8 West 52nd Street 

Open for luncheon, tea and dinner 

Table d'hote at luncheon, $.85 and $1.25. At dinner, 
$2.50. (Also, a la carte) 

And there is a special Samovar Tea served, at tea-time, 
at $1.00 


Ex-Caterer to a King 

Invariably, the first time you step into M. Karoly's little 
place on Madison Avenue, you apologize profoundly, 
stutter profusely and back right out into Madison Ave- 
nue again: because, with all its reputation for marvelous 


food it has the outward appearance of a pastry shop, 
and pastry shops don't belong in a book which is sup- 
posed to deal exclusively with restaurants. But, having 
backed out once, we urge you to walk right in again. 

M. Karoly 's is in this book chiefly because it is the first 
place this adventuring epicure has struck where you get 
the equivalent of a four-dollar dinner for a dollar and 
a quarter! And what a dinner! Eight elaborate, plen- 
tiful courses in the finest Franco-Hungarian culinary 
mode. M. Karoly, aside from having been chief chef to 
a deposed monarch (we said we wouldn't publicize the 
name, and we won't) , was for years alternately chef and 
pastry chef at the Ritz, first in Paris and then in London 
which, indubitably, accounts for the pastry shop ap- 
pearance of his present quarters. And like all Franco- 
Hungarian chefs, he is a stickler for devastating sauces, 
intriguing dressings, and amazing epicurean concoctions. 
His Sauce Piquante is something to rhapsodize over; his 
Russian dressing gives you a new insight into the good- 
ness of a salad; and his profiterolles would cost you at 
least a dollar somewhere else. 

His veal cutlet, Parisien Fumet Sauce, is a work of 
art, his minute steak with Bernaise Sauce something that 
you won't find this side of Paris; his Roast Duckling, 
with Apple Charlotte is simply, and utterly incom- 

Nowhere in all New York will you find a restaurant 
less imposing or more to be recommended; and we mean 
nowhere! If you are one of those people who abhor 
places that look tea-roomy, you will, like as not, have 
to be dragged bodily into Karoly's, which is tiny, tea- 
roomy, and certainly not intended for patrons who go 
in heavily for elbow-room. Nevertheless, pay M. Karoly 


a visit, and enjoy the dinner of your life, and be sure to 
partake of the pastry which he himself affectionately 
sets before you (and which is not included as part of 
your dinner on the menu) . And, final caution, if you 
really do run to size, it would probably be just as well 
to do your deep breathing outside! 

Karoly's Franco-Hungarian 

678 Madison Avenue (between 61st and 62nd Streets) 

Luncheon a la carte , and reasonable; table d'hote dinner, 
$1.25, and remarkable 

Open for luncheon and dinner only, including Sundays 
Maitre d'botel: M. Karoly 

Vive La Table D'Hote 

Anybody who has ever passed his sixth birthday, gotten 
"D" in deportment, or had to eat out at the minimum 
of one night a week, can tell you that if you close your 
eyes and head east on Forty-eighth Street, the first area- 
way you tumble into will be the front yard of a French 
Table d'hote Restaurant. And so it would be, too. Be- 
tween Fifty-second Street and Forty-seventh Street, 
there are somewhere in the neighborhood of eleven mil- 
lion French restaurants, run by ladies who wear black 
silk dresses, white aprons, and, despite their avoirdupois, 
answering happily to the name of "Ma'mselle," "Cherie," 
and "Madame." A couple of them, just to be different, 
are managed by those who don't answer to the name 


of "Ma'mselle," and don't wear black silk dresses, paint 
their fingernails red, or bob their hair; and it is with 
this latter, infinitely smaller group, that your guide is 
chiefly interested. 

Let the Maisons This and the Maisons That bubble 
where they will; our interest lies more along the lines 
of culinary excellence than nomenclature. Only, if you 
insist on running around haphazard for your dining 
place, be warned. If every other house in the above- 
mentioned territory houses a Table D'Hotery, then every 
alternate one houses a speak-easy, and unless you're a 
friend of Mike's or Toney's, or Cuthbert sent you, you 
might just as well go on back home or have a malted 
milk or something. But to get back to the table. 

One of the best of the three or four billion table 
d'hote restaurants is the Maison A. De Winter. The 
Maison A. De Winter (and don't ask us what the "A" 
stands for, because they never did get around to telling 
us) serves an excellent table d'hote. It specializes in 
such dishes of French artistry as Boiled Halibut, Mornay; 
Escalope de Veau (which is veal, nevertheless), avec 
Sauce Champignons (mushrooms, to the uninformed), 
and Haricots Verts, which sounds like a lot and turns 
out merely to be string beans. In all, there's an eight- 
course dinner, beginning with hors d'oeuvres and work- 
ing its way all down the line to delightful, melty Cam- 
embert cheese with toasted crackers, fruit compote, and 
coffee. There are wall-caricatures by the inimitable 
John Decker; a host of waitresses and waiters who really 
speak French and who try, gamely, to understand you, 
when you speak it; and there is a black and white floor 
that gives the place a grand, checker-board effect. 

Another thing. There is no boss, no headwaiter, no 

Maitre d'hotel. The Maison A. De Winter is a corpora- 
tion, functions as a corporation, and gets along nicely 
without a fountain head. And if that choice little bit 
of expert reporting doesn't interest you, and we're con- 
fident it won't, we're just as confident that the food, 
and the reasonableness of the food, at the Maison A. 
De Winter will. 

Maison A. De Winter French 

36 West 48 th Street 

Open for luncheon and dinner 

Table d'hote lunch, $.75. Table d'hote dinner, $1.25. 

Open all day Sunday 


The Celt of Chelsea 

You taxi down to Manhattan's Twenty-third Street and 
turn west to Chelsea. Blue-eyed young hopefuls cuss 
at the taxi driver for interfering with their ball-game 
and gather round, wide-eyed and introspective, to watch 
you descend majestically from your cab. You walk 
into a scrupulously clean little restaurant that you'd 
never think of looking at twice from the outside, sniff 
the heavenly aroma of a genuine Irish stew, and, in the 
words of the old conundrum (or at least, of one of the 
eight million old conundrums) if the waiter's name is 
Pat or Mike, you know that you're in Cavanagh's. 

For what Luchow's is to the Germans, the Wivel to 
the Swedes, and Meyer Gerson's to the vaudeville actor, 


Cavanagh's is to the Celt! Here, the genial Irish gentry 
of the neighborhood gather daily, and nightly police- 
men, plumbers and presidents of near-by banks; book- 
makers, bootleggers and brokers; good actors and bad 
actors; and ordinary folk who'd do better than a mile 
for a cheery bit o' Blarney! 

And at Cavanagh's, as Irish as Killarney, they get 
it. Huge, massive, red-cheeked, square-jowled waiters 
repeat your order in a brogue that's thicker than a 
Cavanagh sirloin steak and swap banter with you, 
beaming on you, and making you feel that sure enough, 
Ireland must be Heaven, if only because Cavanagh 
came from there! 

And the food! Lamb stew! Irish stew with pieces 
of beef as big around as a traffic officer's fist! Sea-food 
that would make a sea-side oyster bar curl up in sheer 
envy: fresh, giant, ice-cold cherrystone clams; sweet, 
tender, man-sized lobsters from Maine, and genuine 
Maryland crabs that can't be equalled anywhere north 
of Baltimore! 

That's Cavanagh's; and while you revel in your 
beefy Irish stew, your ruddy-faced, broad-nosed waiter 
stands by and tells you fast ones, in a brogue that alone 
would be worth coming down to hear. 

All around you, you'll find neighborhood families; 
broad, red-necked men; big-boned, brawny women, in 
clean, albeit antedated hats and oddish capes; shiny- 
faced, slick-haired youngsters and pig-tailed, pug-nosed 
girls representative, clannish folk, who talk in the same 
rich, tuneful brogue, whose eyes twinkle in the same 
good-humored way, and who'll swear by old man Cava- 
nagh the way he'd swear by them. Such is Cavanagh's, 
and you'll need no invitation to come back! 


Cavanagh's Irish 

25 8 West 23rd Street 

Open for luncheon and dinner 
A la carte, and reasonable 
Maitre d'hotel: Charley 


Luchow's Ueber Alles 

Tammany Hall has moved away from Fourteenth Street; 
the Academy of Music (in the original) has crumbled, 
been ripped apart, carted away and replaced by a mod- 
ern monument in mortar; the old Olympic Burlesque 
house is a memory. Fourteenth Street has become a mere 
shadow of its former self; a staid, commonplace thor- 
oughfare now, over-run with schlock stores, cut-rate 
druggists, and shops where the values are so outstanding 
that the police and the first-comers to a sale arrive simul- 
taneously a broad, drab, sleepy street, that was once 
as brilliant as Broadway, as naughty as the Tenderloin, 
as cosmopolitan as the Boulevard de Capucine, and as 
dangerous as Hell's Kitchen. 

For the most part, the old landmarks have gone, with 
the tinsel and the twinkling lights and the ladies of the 
evening, the shooting galleries, the peep-shows and the 
art galleries, that went to make a deep-sea sailor's holi- 
day. Now, clothing stores crowd clothing stores; bar- 
ber shops bob up beside cafeterias; moving picture pal- 
ace door-men all dressed up like West Point Cadets, 
bark at you from under scintillating marquees; and, all 


in all, the old order has changed. Only Luchow's, Amer- 
ica's foremost German restaurant, remains a bare, sad 
reminder of the days when Miinchener and Pilsner were 
legal; when lights were bright and louts were gay; and 
people knew good food when they found it. 

Nevertheless, Luchow's, getting by on the sheer ex- 
cellence of the German food that it excels in, has sur- 
vived both tempest and time. And the folk-lore that 
has been built around its Wiener Schnitzel, its Bauern- 
wurst, its pigs-knuckles and sauerkraut, its maatjes her- 
ring, with onions and a giant boiled potato, persists. 

From all sections of the city, epicures still flock to 
Luchow's. Sitting in friendly circles in the dim, mir- 
rored, paneled room that was once the Rector's of the 
neighborhood, they drink beer that is only as good as 
Mr. Volstead 's Amendment will permit; eat heavy, Teu- 
tonic foods which have no counterpart in all the town; 
and think pensively back to the days when Luchow's, 
sole remainder of the clan, was the haven of the fore- 
most wits and scribes, of every renowned German musi- 
cian, artist, and jocund, rotund, genial soul, south of 
Ninety-sixth Street. 

Luchow's German 

110 East 14th Street 

Open for luncheon and dinner 
A la carte, and fairly reasonable 

Oh, To Be in England! 

If, in your travels, you have ever put up for some little 


while in that place known affectionately to visiting 
musical comedy actors, lecturers, and certain ladies as 
Dear Old London, you are probably already familiar 
with such questionable (to the author) delicacies as kid- 
ney pies, and Yorkshire puddings. 

What we're trying to tell you is that Ye White Horse 
Inn, snuggling peacefully a veritable rose in a bed 
of thorns or speak-easies as it were on Manhattan's 
Forty-fifth Street, makes a specialty of those tasty Brit- 
ish concoctions that so many Americans, visiting in 
London, rush to the French-staffed Ritz Carlton to get 
away from. 

Maybe this won't excite you or send you scurrying 
to Ye White Horse Inn. We can understand it. 
As a matter of fact, we learned about the various things 
that Ye White Horse Inn chefs did to kidneys, mut- 
ton chops, and mixed grills, and it was months and 
months before we stood anxiously on Ye White Horse 
Inn doorstep, clamoring to be shown. 

We'll go even further than that. We'll say that we 
continued coming right back to Ye White Horse Inn, 
week after week, and month after month, and not 
until this very hour can we so much as begin to pass 
judgment on the Inn's special British cuisine. 

We ordered steak a grand, juicy, savory minute 
steak, with strings of mellifluous onions fried to a tender 
crisp; with a baked potato large enough to hide behind; 
and a garlic-butter sauce that, even now as we write 
this, seems to linger ever fresh, ever provocative, in an 
otherwise failing memory. 

We can remember, too, washing it down with first- 
rate, albeit wholly legal beer, and topping the whole 
thing off with a generous, gorgeous slice of real plum 


pie. And afterward, we sat in this low-hung, sprawling, 
comfortable room, so reminiscent of an old-time hon- 
est-to-goodness English Inn, with its beams, and its wall 
paneling, and its quiet air, and its red-checked table- 
cloths, and smoked a pipe (despite the repeated admoni- 
tions of a neurotic waiter, who quite evidently doesn't 
think Ye White Horse Inn is quite the place to 
smoke a pipe in) and wished and wished and wished 
that we might one day have enough money wherewith 
to come back, and eat and drink and smoke a pipe again. 
For Ye White Horse Inn not only startles you 
with the goodness of its food, but with the sizeableness 
of its check. Two can eat here wisely, and well, to boot, 
for somewhere around seven dollars (with beer) and 
for less than that, without. Despite which, Ye White 
Horse Inn is a tavern the town can well be proud of. 

Ye White Horse Inn English 

114 West 45th Street (And use the entrance farthest 

Open for luncheon and dinner (Its playmate, to the 
east, The Hunt Club, is open all night, and frightfully 

No table d'hote dinner, and a la carte prices are none 
too reasonable 


Neat But Not Gaudy 

Suesskind's is the kind of a place that leaves you with 
the feeling that, for all its chairs and tables, one lovely 


day in the none-too-distant past it was a mere delicat- 
essen store. Certainly, only a delicatessen store catering 
to a super-sensitive clientele of patrons who must needs 
have their appetites whetted, could manage to turn out 
the devastatingly good food that you find there. 

The Sauerbraten is the stuff that elderly gourmets, 
reminiscing idly, compare with that of Vienna's Cafe 
Schoener only rich, indigestible and incomparably tasty. 
And if you have never sampled Sauerbraten a la Schoe- 
ner, you/ have an added reason for running off to 
Wien. The dumplings are done all through, and soft; the 
Brosteckel of a goodness that you don't even look for 
outside the environs of an echte Deutsche home. 

On the whole, Suesskind's invariably seems a whole 
lot less like a restaurant, than it does like a week-end 
with your relatives in Milwaukee. There are no haughty 
headwaiters; no spic and span captains; no scintillating 
table-ware and egg-shell crockery. Closing your eyes 
(and maybe you'd better close your ears, too, to get the 
proper effect), and partaking of the Suesskind fare, 
you'd find it easy to believe that you were simply dining 
in the kitchen of some life-long friend. 

And yet, no life-long friend of ours, no Schmidt, no 
Schultze, no Spiegel, ever turned out the kind of food, 
even at a wedding banquet, that the chef turns out at 
Suesskind's every evening of the week. 

Which merely is to tell you that Suesskind's is neat 
but not gaudy; that it serves, among other things, the 
best Bavarian lamb chops in the land juicy, well-done, 
positively crying for help under a mass of meltingly- 
tender onions, mocha-brown and set before you sizzling 
hot, accompanied by the ever-present, ever delectable 
German dill pickle. There's really no maitre d'hotel 


here. It's all Adolph Adolph Suesskind himself and 
it's all right! 

Suesskind's Bavarian 

1253 Lexington Avenue (at 85tb Street) 

Open for luncheon, dinner and between times 
A la carte, and reasonable, too 


Coffee and Castanets 

One of the funniest cartoons ever to appear in the glib, 
sophisticated New Yorker magazine, depicted a wary 
gentleman of serious mien, soberly bearing a huge flash- 
light. The legend underneath, or something very like 
the legend underneath, said "portrait of a man on his 
way to Alice Foote MacDougall's." Nor, and you may 
take it from one who's been there, was the cartoon so 
wholly inaccurate! Alice Foote MacDougall's place 
nay, Alice Foote MacDougall's places, at the time, were 
so artistically dark as to be navigable only to experts 
and employees, who had grown to know their way 

Since that cartoon, the MacDougall lady, who so suc- 
cessfully worked her way up from a few bags of coffee 
beans to a series of Belascopic mess halls, has mended her 
ways. The Alice Foote MacDougall places all six of 
them are no less lavish or artistic; it is simply easier 
to find your way around in them now that's all. There 
are the same old Spanish stucco walls; the same tricky 
little iron grills all about; the same charming young 


hostesses, all gotten up like Saturday night in Seville; 
and what's more important the same unusually high 
quality cuisine. 

Maybe the Alice Foote MacDougall institutions are 
tea-roomy. We've always thought they were and yet, 
nowhere will you find tea rooms that look so much like 
honest-to-goodness replicas of everything Spanish you 
have ever seen in the magazines: tea rooms that go to 
such lengths to thrill their patrons with, not a mere 
dab, but an entire institution full of local color the 
locale being always sunny Spain. 

The fare is excellent, and is less likely to be served in 
tiny dabs than in most similar places. The coffee 
the same coffee that served as a foundation for Lady 
MacDougall's six thriving, theatrical establishments 
is simply the last word. The music of the California 
Ramblers is a definite joy, and a relief from too much 
guitar-strumming; and the service is colorful, if not 
exactly swift. Also, at the Firenze, you can dance 
through dinner and right up to 8.30 o'clock and you'll 
probably want to. All of Alice Foote MacDougall's 
thriving places have Spanish names, Spanish internals, 
and Spanish trios that wander around, from table to 
table, and make things hum. 

The Firenze American 

6 West 46th Street 

Open for luncheon and dinner, neither of which are 
terribly expensive 

Dancing from 6.00 to 8.30 P. M. 

Other Alice Foote MacDougall places are The Piazetta, 
at 20 West 47th; The Cortile, at 37 West 43rd; The 


Sevillia, at 50 West 57th St.; and the Coffee Shop, in 
the Grand Central Terminal. Downtown, at 129 Maiden 
Lane, you'll find the Auberge 

Alice Foote MacDougall, keen and competent, watches 
over all 


The Cymbalom-Player of Second Avenue 

Mr. Stephen Graham wrote of Mr. Joseph Moscowitz in 
his book, New York Nights. Michael Gold, fiery free- 
man, wrote of him in his soul-stirring Jews Without 
Money. Otto Kahn and John Dos Passes and Irving 
Berlin have left the lavish warmth of Broadway and 
Park Avenue and Park Row, to journey to his colorful 
little Roumanian restaurant, to hear him play. For 
twenty years Moscowitz and his Roumanian restaurant 
have been a definite part of have made much of the 
history of New York's East Side. 

Joseph Moscowitz is a slim, mousy, grayish-pinkish 
little man, with a scrubby, enervated little white mus- 
tache, and a passion for the Cymbalom, and for audiences 
to hear him play the Cymbalom. He has given a num- 
ber of Cymbalom concerts at Carnegie Hall. He could, 
to hear his manager Mr. Emanuel tell it, have made 
much money and earned much fame with the instru- 
ment, had it not been for the inevitable call of his first 
love his restaurant. And so, in twenty years, Mosco- 
witz, the Cymbalom player, has played second fiddle to 
Moscowitz, the restaurateur. 


And the result has been apparent. In this case, Mo- 
hammed would not go to the mountain, so the mountain 
has come to Mohammed. Moscowitz's Roumanian Res- 
taurant has thrived. Music-lovers, who could not hear 
him at Carnegie Hall, have joined his vast throng of 
patrons on Second Avenue. The fame of the little Sec- 
ond Avenue restaurant has spread, and, verily, the 
mountain has come to Mohammed. 

Nightly, when the regular dinner-patrons have 
trickled out, and the after-theater-supper patrons have 
trampled in, Moscowitz's Roumanian restaurant has 
been transformed from a restaurant to a corner of Bo- 
hemia. Gone is the clatter of dishes, the sputter of 
seltzer bottles and the high-pitched garrulity. In their 
stead is the merry chatter of merry-makers, the gay 
strains of an orchestra, and the hushed silence that falls 
upon the room when Moscowitz, himself, steps upon 
the little platform before his Cymbalom. 

In the hour after theater, shining automobiles throng 
Second Avenue in front of Moscowitz's restaurant; gay, 
expansive, heavily-jeweled women crowd dark-eyed, 
long-haired, worry-weazened men. Plump, heavily- 
rouged, thick-lipped Jewish songstresses warble the latest 
Broadway torch songs; thin, wiry, Hebraic vaudeville 
artists clatter rhythmically through the machine-gun- 
like rattle of a Buck and Wing; and if the applause is 
lusty enough, Moscowitz himself will mount his plat- 
form, incline his head, poise his mallets theatrically, and 
go off into the intricate mazes of a Liszt Rhapsody 
and how well he does it, is already a matter of history. 

And day after day, his newspaper clippings pile up, 
his patrons increase, and his name takes on added sig- 
nificance. Thus far, twenty years have passed, and 


Moscowitz's Roumanian restaurant looks set for another 
twenty easily. The food strictly Roumanian food 
is good, and rich, and indefinable: Roumanian Tender- 
loin Steak, Frigaroy on the Stick, Garnitura, a sort of 
Roumanian Grill, Carnatzi (a Roumanian Sausage), 
Grashitze (sweetbreads, the Roumanian way), and a 
host of epicurean delights wholly unknown above Four- 
teenth Street, or west of Second Avenue. 

The room itself is small, and warm, and colorful 
through the clouds of smoke that drift in opaque banks 
to the low ceiling. Colorful, although far from startling 
murals by Nicholas Vasilyeff cover the walls. There 
are longish, family-style tables, crowded with seltzer 
bottles, bread trays, pickle-dishes and the plainest sort 
of table-ware. A tilt-nosed, pink-cheeked Irish lass sells 
cigarettes and unbelievably expensive cigars; and one 
Nick Nazaroflf, a delightful, inimitable, wholly person- 
able Master of Ceremonies, announces the "Naxt Nome- 
bare" in a nai've Russo-Yiddish dialect that warms the 
cockles of your heart. 

Here, all is peaceful and happy and entirely sincere; 
you get your money's worth of food, and fun, and good 
music, while you sit back and watch the who's who of 
Manhattan's far-famed East Side at their play. This 
then is the Moscowitz's Roumanian Restaurant that has 
attracted people of national and international fame; that 
has sheltered such well-knowns as Theodore Dreiser, 
Will Durant, Al Jolson, Charles Chaplin; such musi- 
cally-famous folk as Jascha Heifitz, Max Rosen, and 
Ephraim Zimbalist; such tycoons as Colonel DuPont and 
Otto Kahn. George M. Cohan comes here, Georgie Jes- 
sel comes here, and, as a matter of fact, very nearly 
everybody comes here. 


Famous East Side trysts and matches have been made 
here; books have been written, careers planned, fates 
settled, and history made; and still the place goes on, 
happily, unpretentiously, honestly. And the little wiry, 
tired -looking Joseph Moscowitz looks on happily, and 
content, hoping you'll come again to hear him play his 
beloved Cymbalom. 

Moscowitz's Roumanian Restaurant is one place that 
you simply shouldn't miss. 

The Original Moscowitz Roumanian Restaurant 

219 Second Avenue (at 14th Street) 

Open from 11 A.M. to 3 A. M. 

A la carte, and not at all expensive. Best after theater, 
but a revelation for dinner, too 

Maitre d y hotel: Mr. Emanuel 


Symphony in Blue 

Nowadays, if you wield a wickeder megaphone, strum 
a sweeter strain, or cultivate a cockier negro accent than 
your neighbor, they name a cigar or a gingerale after 
you. They hire a jazz-band, contract for eleven mil- 
lion dollars' worth of radio hook-up, and pretty soon 
the natives of Waukesha know all about you, and life 
is a cross between a bed of roses and a rain-fall of roy- 

Which only proves that times have changed and that 

they do these things up browner today. Back in the 
early Eighteenth Century, one Monsieur Brillat-Savarin, 
politician, plutocrat and professional gourmet, came 
suddenly to the conclusion that there was as much art 
in knowing what to eat, and when, and where, as there 
was in knowing how to prepare it. With this in mind, 
he took his pen in hand (there were no megaphones in 
those days) and wrote the Physiologic du Gout, which, 
translated, may not actually mean The Physiology, or 
Psychology, of Taste but means something very nearly 
like it. And what happened? They named a string of 
restaurants after him! 

Which brings us right down to the Cafe Savarin. 
(They dropped the first half of his name, because they 
found that Americans either didn't, or wouldn't learn 
how to pronounce it.) 

The Cafe Savarin is one of the smartest of the many 
smart restaurants in lower Manhattan a thoroughly 
modern, thoroughly American restaurant, planned, one 
would suspect, to make subway-riders feel right at home 
within its walls. Located in the basement, or maybe it's 
the sub-basement of the famed Equitable Building, you 
reach it by descending the same number of steps that 
you'd have to descend to get to a Lenox Avenue local. 
Having climbed down, you find yourself in a large, 
dim-lit cavern of burnished blue tile, with contrasting 
floors and indirect lights which create a fleeting im- 
pression of synthetic daylight. Here, once you have 
become accustomed to the reverberation of dishes and 
table-ware (which clatter in a nice refined way) you 
may loll back comfortably in your chair, order from 
a menu which, there's no denying, can hold its own 
with any in New York, and take inventory of the 


folks around you. For those around you are invariably 
worth inventorying. It is no secret that the Cafe Savarin 
clientele, taken at any given lunch-hour, and including 
such leaders in the banking field as J. P. Morgan, Jr., 
can write its combined check for several hundred millions 
of dollars. 

The service at the Cafe Savarin is swift with that 
sort of clientele, you'd know that without our making 
special mention of it the food is excellent you'd know 
that, too and the prices again considering the clien- 
tele are actually reasonable. What more could even 
Brillat-Savarin ask? 

The Cafe Savarin American 

120 Broadway 

(There are other Cafe Savarins at the Pennsylvania Sta- 
tion, Grand Central Terminal , the Graybar Building and 
New York Life Building) 

Open for luncheon and dinner (Until 9 P. M., for the 
benefit of late workers) 

A la carte, and reasonable, considering 
Uaitre d'hotel: Mrs. Hall 


Hub of the Hubbub! 

When Will Hays was a gangling law student and Adolph 
Zukor ran a nickelodeon; when Marcus Loew was a 


furrier and William Fox sponged pants; when Diamond 
Jim Brady's stickpin was brighter than any light on 
Broadway, and Churchill's was a synonym for cham- 
pagne suppers, chorus girls with a passion for lobsters 
of more than one breed, and the night-time spirit of 
New York, the Hotel Astor, hub of the hubbub, was 

Today, in the Hunting Room of the Astor, Will Hays 
lunches with movie executives who figure in the mil- 
lions on the table-cloths; Marcus Loew is gone, but his 
name, emblazoned on moving picture and vaudeville 
theaters through the English-speaking world, is a syno- 
nym for entertainment; William Fox, lately ousted 
from the company that bears his name, draws a salary 
of half a million dollars yearly for doing nothing; Dia- 
mond Jim Brady is a memory; Churchill's is gone, and 
a lobster to a chorus girl is simply a specie of sea-food, 
harder than most to eat but the Hotel Astor is still 
the hub of hubbub! 

In its Hunting Room (for gentlemen only) you'll 
find daily important figures in the world of entertain- 
ment the Jesse Laskys, the Sam Katzs, the Adolph 
Zukors and the A. M. Botsfords. And this doesn't begin 
to tell you all. To the Astor Hunting Room, day after 
day, come the bigwigs of Broadway. The By-Liners, 
that newspaper club consisting of the by-line writers 
in New York's world of journalism, was organized here; 
stars have been made and broken here; songs have been 
written; plots have been planned, and histrionic history 
has been made. 

The room is comfortable and quiet, patterned on the 
lines of an old English Tavern; the service is good and 
precise; the food reasonable; and the restriction against 


the fair sex, during the noon-hour, has never been lifted. 
Of an evening, the Hunting Room is a rendezvous for 
both sexes, although at that hour, it bows and gives way 
gracefully to the lighter, brighter North Restaurant 
and Indian Room. Here, prior to the theater hour, there 
is a special "Theater Dinner," expertly contrived to 
eliminate the onus of poring over a menu; there is music, 
by a Meyer Davis orchestra, and there is dancing after 
the theater, in the Indian Room Grill in the winter and 
on the Roof in the summer. 

Also, in this hub of hubbub, there is an entirely dif- 
ferent dinner and after-theater clientele. The names 
that are familiar to you thin out after the dinner hour, 
and are replaced with the recognizable figures of out- 
of-town visitors traveling playboys; wandering min- 
strels buyers from the Middle West; brokers from up 
New York State; gamblers and men who follow the 
races; sportsmen; visiting celebrities and gay demoiselles 
in town on a lark. 

And whether it be the Hunting Room, the North 
Restaurant, the Roof, or the Indian Grill, cheer and 
gaiety run rife; the cuisine is par excellence; the service 
sprightlier than you have any right to expect in a tran- 
sient hotel; and the prices lower than you would sur- 

The Hotel Astor, 44th Street and Broadway 

Table d'hote dinners in the North Restaurant, $2.00 
A la carte in all other rooms , and surprisingly inexpensive 

Dancing in the Indian Grill in the winter, and atop the 
Roof in the summer, with a varying cover charge, after 
10 P. M. 



You Can't Beat the Dutch! 

Invariably, when you're on the subject of the really old 
restaurants of New York, somebody will hark back to 
the days of Peter Stuyvesant and work forward until, 
eventually, the name of Ye Olde Dutch Tavern slips 
into the conversation. And right then and there is as 
good a time as any for you to tell them what's really 
what about that place. 

For despite the legend and folk-lore associated with 
Ye Olde Dutch Tavern, and the nice, antiquated asso- 
ciations that seem to come along with every mention of 
it, the place is hardly more than thirty -five years old 
and that is that! 

When Ye Olde Dutch Tavern first opened its doors, 
the chances are that your parents were full-grown, and 
even you might have been well above the kindergarten 
which is to say that Ye Olde Dutch Tavern, in the mat- 
ter of years, is practically a newcomer compared with 
some genuine old-timers. 

Nevertheless, the Dutch Tavern, whose title we find 
it more convenient to abbreviate thus for the present, 
has managed to surround itself with a spirit and a feel- 
ing of antiquity that, in effect, puts it back into the 
American Revolution class. The furnishings are old 
and, in the manner of the Dutch, immaculate; the wait- 
ers shine; you can see yourself in the pottery; and the 
precision and dispatch, the thoroughness with which 
everything is done, will amaze you. 

And getting down to cases, you can't go wrong any- 

where on the menu. The Beef a la Mode mit Kartufel 
Pfankiicken are savory and marvelous (to let you in on 
a little secret, just plain, unvarnished, old-fashioned 
potato pancakes make a tidy meal in themselves) . The 
Sardellen, Frikadellen, and maatjes, Holland, and Mar- 
inierte herring actually rate a chapter; and the apple- 
pie is the kind that Mother is alleged to have made, but, 
if the truth were known, was never even able to ap- 

For its clientele, Ye Olde Dutch Tavern is over-run 
with bluff, hearty business men of another day gentle- 
men who don't subscribe to the theory that a malted milk 
and a sandwich is a meal gentlemen who take their 
dinner, and their luncheon, too, at their leisure, and who 
sit around and smoke after their repast, and thus enjoy 
themselves. Ye Olde Dutch Tavern is the place to lunch 
on a day when your appetite demands good food and 
plenty of it. 

Ye Olde Dutch Tavern Dutch 

15 John Street 

Open for luncheon and dinner 
A la carte, and reasonable 
Maitre d'hotel: Herr Huefner 


Behold! Bohemia! 

It is likely that the Cafe Royal doesn't belong in a book 
of restaurants at all; likely, too, that one of these days 


some scribe, far more ambitious than the author, will 
undertake to spend a dozen evenings within its noisy 
walls, and will come out with a work based on that place 
exclusively. For the Cafe Royal, which is exactly the 
kind of a restaurant you wouldn't care a lot about in 
the day-time, is exactly the place to visit after dark. 
Here, when the neighborhood shows are over; when the 
last great aria has been sung in the Metropolitan Opera 
House; when the German and Yiddish theaters have 
closed for the night, and tomorrow morning's papers 
have gone to press, gather the music critics, the dra- 
matic critics, the followers of the Adlers and the friends 
of Molly Picon, to discuss the triumphs of the evening. 

Old, seamy-faced veterans of a score of years of service 
to their German and Yiddish reading public gather in 
the Cafe Royal in intimate, cheery little groups, and 
eat their bread and cheese, their herring and their gef iilte 
fish, their vegetables and sour cream, battling between 
bites to the verbal death. Music critics, who have fol- 
lowed the Opera almost since Knighthood was in Flower, 
sip their coffee with its hot milk, getting the top-skim 
on their walrus mustaches. Pariahs of the German and 
Yiddish theaters, in sad, faded frock coats and shoe-string 
ties debate the drawing power of a Picon as against a 
Georgie Jessel. Here, too, buxom, gold-toothed, furred 
and feathered ladies the Four Hundred of the neigh- 
borhood gather after some local ball or festive get- 
together; ladies who use too much rouge, and too much 
perfume, who wear too many jewels and too much jet, 
shrilling happily above the soft monotones of their hard- 
working, weary escorts. 

In the Cafe Royal, after the theater, all is gay and 
gaudy and garrulous; and here the visitor from further 


uptown will find the truest, most honest Bohemia in 
all New York. The walls are half -paneled, and, with 
the exception of a few mirrors, no one has ever gone to 
any great pains to decorate them; the floors are tiled, 
and, so we're told, were once saw-dust covered. The 
waiters are sour-faced, fresh, and will tell you what you 
want, if you don't tell them first but the liverwurst is 
marvelous, the tea-in-glass is nectar, the boiled eggs 
with chopped onions are something you'll not find else- 
where, and the chopped chicken-livers are worth com- 
ing down for. Behold, then, here's Bohemia! 

The Cafe Royal Jewish 

12th Street, and 2nd Avenue 

Open all day, and likely enough, all night 

A la carte only, and not nearly as reasonable as you'd 
expect (After all, this is the Elysee of the East Side) 

Maitre d' hotel: Herman 


Say Farrisb's to the Driver 

Back in the days when the Rotary Club was simply an 
ideal (and before it became something for Messrs. 
Mencken and Lewis to rail at) Farrish's was a thriving 
chop house, growing in favor, if not in size; and the 
present-day Rotary Club motto "he who serves most, 
profits best" was the Farrish slogan. And if years of 
usefulness to a community prove anything, there's a 
kick in the old slogan yet. For Farrish's has been doing 


business, and an enviable business, too, since 1856. Until 
a few years ago, when, for the first time in its history, 
it moved down the street, Farrish's had been at the same 
old stand since it first opened its doors. 

Farrish's still persists, in its new location now, where 
it seems to have brought all its old traditions with it 
its traditions, and its old, conventional wooden tables, 
and its air of mustiness, and the antiques, doodabs and 
decorations that it has brought along from its original 

Too, it has brought along its happy knack for serving 
good, homey, homely food, in a good, homey, homely 
way steaks and chops that are chops and beef and 
roasts that are roasts. As a matter of fact, you learn 
from the back of the menu just exactly how many lamb 
chops, and how many chunks of beef, and how many 
roasts, have been set before Farrish patrons since the day 
on which the original Farrish opened. This has been all 
worked out into kidneys, livers, brains and soup-meat, 
by one of those gentlemen who would rather tell you 
how many times the word "Thou" occurs in the Bible, 
than take in a Ziegfeld premiere. 

In sum, Farrish's is a breath of old, old New York 
a tradition that has changed addresses rather than pro- 
cesses, and if you're one of those who like that sort of 
thing and who doesn't? you'll find old Farrish's a 
worthy among worthies. 

Farrish's Chop House American 

42 John Street 

Open for luncheon and dinner 

A la carte menu most reasonable 


History Has Its Face Lifted 

In 1719, one Etienne De Lancey, French Huguenot and 
gentleman of adventure, came to New York, courted 
and married one Anne, daughter of the Dutch Stephanus 
Van Cortlandt, and received as a wedding gift, prop- 
erty in the neighborhood now known as Pearl Street. 
He built him a fine house, and it suits the purpose of 
this author to suppose that the couple lived there hap- 
pily ever after. 

What concerns us more is that in 1763 one Samuel 
Fraunces, a West Indian gentleman of French extrac- 
tion, took the house over, christened it the "Queen's 
Head Tavern" after Queen Charlotte, spouse of 
George III hung out a creaky shingle, and went to 
work, making customers, and history, too. You can 
find the rest of the story in Valentine's Manual for 1854. 

Between the Tavern's inception and its consequent 
decay, there had been many fires which gutted it, many 
owners who ran it, and divers others who let it run 
itself into the ground. And then, way back in 1904, 
along came the Sons of the American Revolution. 

They bought the property, engaged William H. Mer- 
sereau as architect and in less time than it takes to talk 
about it, the historic Fraunces' Tavern had had it face 
lifted, or rather, to be more specific, restored. The 
changes and additions that had been incorporated both 
inside and out on the original place, were razed; back 
came the walls of Dutch and English brick, the trick 


roof, and the what-nots and lo, Fraunces' Tavern was 

Since then, the Tavern has thrived, not alone as a 
museum, which in reality it is, but as a restaurant, which 
it is also. And very likely it is known more widely as 
a good restaurant than as a hall of antiquity. It main- 
tains its Colonial charm and many of its Colonial cus- 
toms. It is a large, roomy, quiet place a Tavern of a 
thousand historic ghosts and a hundred thousand mem- 
ories. The spirit of the great Generals, ranging from 
Washington to Knox, seem ever present within its re- 
vered walls. And its food is amazingly inviting. Its 
chafing dish specialties are memorable as are the Revo- 
lutionary-day souvenirs that abound there; its coffee 
is incomparable; its Crab flakes a la Fraunces' Tavern, 
well worth the time it takes you to find the place; and 
its sea-food is a delight. 

Here, at the noon hour, come the business gentlemen 
of the neighborhood: the importers of coffee and spices 
and food-stuffs, who know what's what in the culinary 
line. And here, too, come hundreds and hundreds of 
seekers of both cuisine and color. Here is charm, and 
quiet an old-world Tavern in a new-world setting. 

Fraunces' Tavern American 

54 Pearl Street 

Open for luncheon and afternoon tea. It closes at 4 P. M. 
Moderate prices, a la carte 
Maitre d'hotel: Mrs. Lawlor 



Janssen Wants to See You 

An old friend of the proprietor once walked into the 
Hofbrau Haus, sat down at table, and made ready to 
order. Proprietor Janssen noticed him, summoned a 
bus boy, and told him to tell the gentleman to stop in 
at the office on his way out. The bus boy went over to 
the gentleman's table and bellowed, quite disrespectfully, 
"Janssen wants to see you!" The hook in the story is 
that the gentleman came a-running. Amazed, Janssen 
wrote the phrase on a couple of thousand postcards 
more for the purpose of seeing what would happen than 
for any other reason mailed them to his friends and, 
lo and behold! They came a-running too! 

Thus was born the most famous slogan in restaurant 
circles (or so they tell us). Nevertheless, prior to the 
days when it became illegal to buy beer in a restaurant 
and imperative that you get it in a speak-easy, Janssen's 
old Hofbrau Haus thrived. The food, chiefly heavy, 
delectable German specialties, became known for its 
excellence all over town; and unless you were known, 
during the noon-day hour you got a table at Janssen's 
with the same ease and facility with which you get a 
seat on a Bronx Park Subway Express during the rush 
hour today. 

In those days, rumor had it, too, that there was a 
delightful, homey room upstairs at Janssen's to which 
only a respected and chosen few were ever admitted 


and these only by pass-word. We couldn't say as to 

When prohibition, and shorter luncheon hours, and 
keener competition set in, business at the Hofbrau fell 
off in a measure. It became easier to get a seat and a 
little service with it; but nevertheless, the old-timers 
stuck, and continue to stick, right up to this day. 

Whether or not the elder Janssen saw the handwrit- 
ing on the wall, no one will know. Uptown restaurants, 
with music, and cabarets, and girls in various stages of 
dress and undress, were thriving on a land-office busi- 
ness. (This, remember, was still prior to the days before 
there was one of these food and fun emporiums on 
every street corner.) 

Mr. Janssen opened a place uptown. He put in a jazz 
band, a floor show, a lavish table d'hote dinner, and a 
cover charge; and this place did well, too. But Janssen's 
original Hofbrau, without music, entertainment, or 
other purely modern embellishment, carries on. 

The food still German gravied delicacies is as good 
as it ever was; the clientele is as German as it ever was 
and as discerning; and the beer, even if it isn't strong 
as to alcoholic content, is pleasant and palatable. The 
atmosphere is quiet, and homey, and pre-war; the wait- 
ers some of the old ones are still on hand take their 
time as before (which is a worthy attribute, these days) ; 
and the original Hofbrau Haus, despite its snootier, 
swankier contemporary up on Broadway, continues a 
worthy institution among New York's better restaurants. 
Also, and despite the fact that the slogan has been shifted 
northward, too, we suspect that it is the old Hofbrau 
Haus, where, more particularly, "Janssen wants to see 


Hofbrau Ham German 

28 West 3 Oth Street 

A la carte, and reasonable 
Open for luncheon and dinner 

Janssen's Hofbrau German- American 

1680 Broadway 

Table d'hote dinner, $2.00 

Dancing and entertainment 

Open for luncheon, dinner and after-theater supper 

Dinty, the Moore 

We can, without half trying, give you an ample, ade- 
quate, and wholly accurate picture of Dinty Moore's 
restaurant in two short sentences. First, "Dinty 
Moore's serves the best plain, foody food in all New 
York." Second, "Dinty Moore's charges more for its 
good, homey foody food than any similar establishment 
in America!" In short, to determine the cost of an 
adequate dinner at Dinty Moore's, borrow a menu from 
Manhattan's swanky Pierre's; add twenty cents to every 
item, and then even then the chances are you'll come 
out a few dollars under the Moore scale. 

Dinty Moore's, once a plain, thoroughly rough-and- 
ready establishment, has added doormen with uniforms; 
has made a bid for what might be termed the "carriage 
trade" of Broadway, and has won it. It is, from a stand- 


point of clientele, the favorite restaurant of Broadway's 
biggest bigwigs. 

Here, almost any night, you're likely to run into such 
figures as Florenz Ziegf eld, Will Rogers, and Irving Ber- 
lin. Here you'll see the who's who of typically Broad- 
way Broadway names that run from the high facades 
of high finance to those of struggling producers. George 
White, Earl Carroll, and Edward Blatt are regular Dinty 
Moore patrons; so is the frequently late Mayor James J. 
Walker; Larry Fay, Eddie Cantor and Ed Wynn; Grant- 
land Rice and Dan Parker, the sports scribes writers, 
actors, bankers, brokers and bootleggers all, as you will 
notice, gentlemen engaged in labors that make the Dinty 
Moore prices seem unimportant and the Dinty Moore 
fare, appear all-important. 

Here, a baked potato that a little man could hide be- 
hind, fetches a plebeian sixty cents; a lamb chop, that is 
the granddaddy of all lamb chops, brings Dinty a dollar 
and a half; and regardless of what the lemon meringue 
pie brings, it's a bargain at twice the price. The food is 
wholesome; the portions large; the waiters quarrelsome 
and slow, and inclined to argue with you if you attempt 
to speed them up; but the quality of the food that is set 
before you when it is set before you has no equal. 

Dinty Moore's Irish 

216 West 46th Street 

A la carte, and expensive 
Open for luncheon and dinner 


My God! Another Chop House? 

Once upon a time, the Lambs gamboled where Keen's 
Chop House now stands, and playfully posted each other 
for dues that were overdue. And then, as the screen 
puts it, came the Talkies. Vaudeville languished; or- 
ganizations supported by Vaudevillians shriveled; the 
Lambs' Club went places; and Keen's Chop House blos- 
somed on the old site, giving America its meatiest mut- 
ton chops in the process. 

Keen's, like many of the other chop houses, looks, 
smells, and feels like a very, very old English Inn. Its 
interior is old, smoky, and dim-lit cleaner than the 
Cheshire Cheese, but not a whit less atmospheric. 

And in keeping with its English traditions (maybe 
we didn't tell you that it has English traditions, but it 
has), the interior is hung with sporting prints, modern 
and not so modern, with etchings and water-colors of 
the Hunt, and with very old Playbills. 

Here too, if you get your waiter in a talkative mood, 
he'll point out one of these old programs (playbills, to 
your English forebears) a playbill of Our American 
Cousin, frayed now, and bloodstained; and he'll explain 
that here then is the playbill that Abraham Lincoln held 
in his hand the night of his assassination. 

The waiters, too, are English, and an unwieldy sort of 
type; but they're willing, eager to please, and their accent 
reminds you of nothing so much as a steward on a 
British liner. 

The fare is English, too marvelous mixed grills, mut- 

ton chops pretty nearly as large as a boxing glove, though 
ever so much more tender, and the usual giant baked 
potatoes and good, rare roasts whose aroma is, taken 
all alone, sufficient as an appetizer. 

The fare is satisfying, both as to quantity and quality; 
the prices fairly reasonable, considering; and the clientele, 
assorted. Around and about you, you'll find artists, 
actors, and plain, ordinary epicures sportsmen of this 
day and of a day that has gone; prize-fighters, building 
up energy with the good food, and their hangers-on, 
watching them with awe and admiration. Here, in this 
erstwhile headquarters of New York's famous Dutch 
Treat Club, you'll find good food, a comfortable at- 
mosphere, and plenty of leisure in which to enjoy both. 

Keen's Chop House English 

7 2 West 3 6 th Street 

A la carte, and fairly reasonable 
Open for luncheon and dinner 

There is another Keen's Chop House at 107 West 44th 
Street, but recently come under the management of the 
well-known Billy Duffy. Also, there is one in the Hotel 
Ansonia at Broadway and 73 r d Street 

So You're Going to Manny's 

Manny's Restaurant is down on Forsyth Street, which 
is near Canal Street but even if we told you what it 
was near you probably wouldn't be able to find it without 


the aid of a taxi driver who knew his New York. That 
is how hard Manny's is to get to. You simply find your- 
self a taxi driver that looks intelligent and tell him 
Manny's helping him just the teeniest- weeniest bit by 
telling him it's on Forsyth Street, and that the number is 
eighty-two and let nature take its course. 

We learned all about Manny's a long time ago, from 
young Mr. Rudy Vallee. It is, to hear Mr. Vallee tell 
it, one of the finest, ungarnished eating places in all New 
York. All of which is dependent upon the amount of 
eating you've done around town, and where you've 
done it. 

Manny's is a large, airy, bare sort of place, burgeoning 
brightly under a nice, patient, political patronage, and 
because of this, the German waiters can afford to be just 
a little bit snootier than they are in any other restaurant 
in New York, and considerably more brazen than they 
ought to be even in Manny's! 

It is, as we said, a fairly bare, long, undecorated room: 
a room whose only decoration are a couple of photo- 
graphs of Rudy Vallee, a couple of photographs (group) 
of some Beefsteak dinners (and the accompanying 
diners), and a photograph, suitably endorsed, of Mr. 
Harry Green of the movies. 

The waiters speak a guttural German dialect; the fare 
favors no nation in particular; and the prices have been 
set without considering at all how far Manny's really 
is from Park Avenue. 

Here you'll see the biggest politicians, judges, lawyers, 
and sportsmen in the town; also numerous actors, 
actresses, writers, editors, and even Mayor Walker, upon 
occasion, himself. 

There is a huge bar to your left as you enter Manny's: 

a bar over which little or nothing (so they tell us) save 
the veriest near beer is ever passed. And the rest of the 
place is simply a collection of plain tables, plainer chairs, 
and anything but plain patrons. When you enter 
Manny's, you shift for yourself. There are tables to be 
sat at, and you pick one out, and sit at it. And then, 
sooner or later, one of the afore-mentioned waiters will 
sidle up to your elbow and grunt, disapprovingly, and 
this means that everything is all right, and you can go 
ahead and give him your order. 

And it is then that you learn one of the secrets (only 
one, mind you) of Manny's success. (If there is more 
than one, you'll never hear about it from us, and that is 
that.) For Manny's food is really good; furthermore, 
it is plentiful. At Manny's, butter is butter, and you 
get enough of it; cream is cream, and requires no apology; 
and food is food, and is its own best advertisement. The 
calf's liver smothered with onions is perfection; the pork 
chops with apple sauce are plain, but priceless. 

What more, really, is there left to say about the place. 
Manny's is an old-timer, a show-place, a rendezvous for 
the politically great and near-great, and a restaurant with 
a closet full of traditions, most of them having to do with 
the high prices charged there, the high quality of the 
food served there, and the blunt, galling discourtesy of 
the waiters employed there. The chances are you'll like 
Manny's, for all o' that. Lots and lots of people do. 

Manny's German- American 

82 Forsyth Street 

A la carte, and not too reasonable 

Open for luncheon and dinner , and later 



Old Curiosity Shop 

New York's oldest restaurant and if you can dig up 
one that has been in existence for longer than one hun- 
dred and thirty years we'll apologize publicly is Ye 
Olde Chop House. In one hundred and thirty years, or 
thereabouts, Ye Olde Chop House hasn't changed its 
location, modernized its menus, or commercialized its 
cuisine. It is still Ye Olde Chop House, both inside and 
out; and if you can believe what you hear, it has served 
daily the workers in the neighborhood of Cedar Street for 
one hundred and eighteen years, without receiving a 
single complaint! 

Inside, the appointments, or rather the lack of them, 
are just as they were over one hundred years ago. Old, 
priceless prints line its dark, worn walls; and to get to 
the back room, down a few steps, you follow a narrow 
passage to one side of the kitchen, which is placed dead 

Here you'll find a gloomy, comfortable, dim-lit old 
place, with diners separated by stalls. The walls are cov- 
ered with chilling relics of the sea a huge fish, spiked 
to the plank, harpoons, ships lanterns, and a carefully 
made ship model. And as you look about you, you're 
likely to reflect that here is just the place for a murder, 
whereas, it's just the place for a meal! 

The food specialties of the house run along Chop 
House lines grilled foods, roasts, steaks, chops, genuine 
Lynnhavens and Woods Hole clams. 

Near the entrance, of Ye Olde Chop House, there is 

an old-time oyster bar, well-worn, and grooved by usage. 
The furniture is wooden and antiquated; the ceilings are 
beamed and smoke-blackened; and the entire place isn't 
much bigger than a minute. 

The clientele is composed chiefly of men, and due to 
its nearness to the sea and the North River, many of its 
patrons are men who follow the sea, either via desks and 
bills of lading, or on the bridge and in the foVsle. 
Although women are welcome, the appointments are 
much less frilly and fussy than most women like. Here, 
everything is old, but honestly old, and nothing is dedi- 
cated in the least respect to show, which, oddly enough, 
makes Ye Olde Chop House a show-place in itself! 

Ye Olde Chop House American 

1 1 8 Cedar Street 

Open for luncheon and dinner 
A la carte y and reasonable 


Viola, of the Village 

Once, to hear the old-timers tell it, Greenwich Village 
was a tobacco farm or some such useful thing, and there 
wasn't a soul any more artistic than a milk-maid within 
a mile of it. Then it was that the shell of what is now 
the Pepper Pot was an old cow-barn. The old beams and 
rafters and posts are still there, in silent testimony of its 

The Pepper Pot now is a combination of half a dozen 
restaurants; and ladies and gentlemen who have never 


seen anything that resembles a cow more closely than 
a futuristic painting of one, sit by the accumulated, 
artful drippings of giant candles, in the dim-lit basement, 
and sip coffee that has been percolated through Japanese 
rice paper, and eat eggs that, in accordance with the 
note on the Pepper Pot menu, come all the way from 
"Air-castle Acres" farm in Orange county. 

The Pepper Pot, they'll tell you, was established as a 
rendezvous for their actor and actress friends by one 
Doctor Carlyle Sherlock and his wife, Viola, when both 
retired from the motion picture screen. But time and 
advertising have broadened the old place out. 

Now, in the basement the very, very, very basement, 
we mean is Greenwich Village's oldest restaurant, 
the Samovar. Above this is the Pepper Pot main restau- 
rant, where visitors from the four corners of the country 
gather nightly over marvelous Southern dishes. Above 
this, there are two additional, snootier restaurants, in 
which there is dancing every afternoon from 12 to 3, 
and every evening from 6 P. M. to 2 A. M., and where, 
the menu tells you, "Hip-pocket specialties are pro- 
hibited." On Saturday, there is a special luncheon dance 
from 1 P. M. till 4. 

Here, too, a wandering gypsy named Rita (this season) 
will tell your fortune at cards while you wait for your 
broiled young chicken, fresh from the farm, or a South- 
ern fried steak not fresh from a farm but just as good 
as though it were. The Pepper Pot specialty if there 
is a Pepper Pot specialty is, besides the right-from-the- 
f arm chickens and eggs, chili con carne in genuine Mexi- 
can style. There is a pretty general run of Southern 
fare, Virginia ham, and such, prepared by a Southern 
chef who actually has been farther south than Newark! 


Between times, when you're not eating, or dancing, or 
having your fortune told, there's plenty of room to sit 
over a game of chess, or checkers, or bridge. A nice, 
rambling, chummy sort of place, the Pepper Pot! 

The Pepper Pot American 

146 West 4th Street 

Table d'hote dinners at $1.25, $1.50 and $2.00; also 
a la carte 

Open for luncheon, dinner and after-theater supper 
Uaitre d y hotel: Viola 


The Goose Man! 

By now you know, if you have followed us this far, that 
New York, so far as its restaurants are concerned, is a 
city of specialists. In New York there are specialists in 
hamburger sandwiches, specialists in coffee, specialists in 
unpronounceable what-nots from the Orient; places 
where you can get a meal in a minute or a month, in a 
Blue Plate, in twelve courses, or in a glass. 

Gansemayer, a familiar name to every German in Man- 
hattan, is a gentleman who, seventy years and more ago, 
established himself as a specialist in geese. Nearly seventy 
years ago, the original Simon Mayer was a butcher, with 
three daughters. One of them married a little fellow 
named Goldman. Riding home one evening on a Madi- 
son Avenue car, little Herr Goldman heard a precocious 
youth chirrup, merrily: "There's old man Gansemayer, 


and his son and daughter." And the name stuck. Ganse- 
mayer, which merely meant "goose-Mayer" then, now 
means Manhattan's headquarters for rare, delectable con- 
coctions in which there figures every imaginable part of 
a goose, save only its honk! 

You go to Gansemayer's still located on Manhattan's 
Thirteenth Street, where it's been for half a century 
for everything in the way of goose. Here there will be 
roast goose; broiled goose, with delectable red cabbage, 
potatoes, and applesauce; stuffed goose; potted goose; 
"gansegrieben," which, unless you're up on your German, 
you won't know means the skin of the goose, thoroughly 
rendered and served crisp and crackly; goose neck; goose 
giblets (called by an unpronounceable name) ; and 
goose livers. 

Now, with the neighborhood changed, and many 
of these who comprised Gansemayer's original and 
enthusiastic clientele dead and gone, the restaurant is 
quieter, more traditional, but, with the single exception 
of electric lights, no more modern. Gansemayer, the 
original "goose-mayer" is gone, but his son-in-law, now 
eighty-one, carries on in the management of the place, 
and does well. Here, the little, vivacious, eighty-one- 
year-old "Pop" Goldman, as his friends call him, will 
sit and reminisce with you; will cast an appraising eye 
over the menu, and point out this specialty and that. 

If there should be a lull in the conversation, or "Pop" 
Goldman should find himself talked out, he'll bring you 
a little green book, gotten up in Yiddish and with an 
English translation, that begins on the last page, and 
works itself forward, reading, as it were, from right to 
left. And from the booklet, you learn things. You 
learn that the original Simon Mayer, a Whig, lost an 


election bet, the payment of which was a family dinner 
at his place. There was goose for dinner, and his friends 
raved so over its preparation that from that day on his 
fame was made. There, children, you have a case in 
point, of the goose that laid the golden egg! Simon 
Mayer's fame as a goose specialist spread quickly, and 
has outlasted the majority of the restaurants of his day. 
For extraordinarily good food for the most elabo- 
rate goose specialities in the land you'll want to visit 
Gansemayer, the Goose Man, favorite restaurant of Herb 
Roth the famed cartoonist, O. O. Mclntyre the columnist, 
and every banker, broker, and business man in the neigh- 

Gansemayer German-Jewish 

58 East 13tb Street 

A la carte, and very reasonable 

Open for luncheon and dinner, daily, including Sundays 

Maitre d'hotel: "Pop" Goldman 


f 7/ Yer Know of a Better 'Ole, Go To It" 

That, if you know your Bruce Bairnsfather, was the out- 
standing pronouncement of the loveable Old Bill, whose 
creation made the late World War bearable for the pos- 
terity which has had to live and breathe tanks, taps and 
mustached Second Lieutenants in a great many of its 
movies and stage plays, ever since. 

And it seems that no sooner did Old Bill, ably assisted 

by the beaming Bairnsfather, give voice to this bit of 
sagacity, than lo and behold! there was a restaurant 
named after it! 

The Better 'Ole is English as the drop of an aitch or 
the tilt of a soft felt topper. But it isn't too English. We 
mean, that while a few members of its staff might, on 
occasion, drop an aitch, or pine for bloater or a mite of 
Whitebait, at least the soups that are served there are 
not watery, the meats are genuinely done, and there really 
is oil in the salad dressing. 

These facts, taken singly or in a group, are sufficient, 
then, to warrant the Better 'Ole getting its name in 
this book. For, when all is said and done, the Better 
'Ole does serve delightfully good food at exceptionally 
low prices, and in an atmosphere redolent with all the 
open-work fireplaces, copper kettles, old English Prints, 
homey wall-paper and candles, that you'd expect to find 
in a place with a name like The Better 'Ole. 

The Better 'Ole is charming; it serves, as noted before, 
good food; and you'll simply love the English accent 
of blonde, little Madge Surtees, who speaks exactly the 
way most untraveled young American actresses think 
that young English ladies do and should. Miss Surtees 

The Better 'Ole English 

18 West 56th Street 

Open for luncheon, tea and dinner 

A la carte and table d'hote; luncheon, $.75 ; dinner, $1.00 
and $1.25 

Maitre d'hotel: Madge Surtees 



Cuisine for the Cosmopolite 

Let the Ritz-Carlton have its Theodore; let the Crillon 
and the Voisin and the Park Lane have their swank; 
let little restaurants with good French names and bad 
American manners startle the unsuspecting diner with 
a gorgeousness that takes his mind off the menu and a 
lavishness that holds him in perpetual awe! 

The Colony is the restaurant of the cosmopolite and 
the connoisseur; the rendezvous of the social registrite; 
the retreat of the Four Hundred rather than the Four 
Million which emulate them. It is to the Manor born 
a restaurant whose patrons are rated on a basis of breeding 
rather than bankroll. 

Here you'll find no gold ceilings, no glittering 
grandeur, no novelties for the nouveau riche. The 
Colony is quiet, exclusive, expensive, and wholly dis- 
interested in the newest wrinkles in interior decoration 
and similar obtrusive bids for the business of patrons 
who go in more for decoration than decorum. 

It is a restaurant wholly without tradition, other than 
that it caters to the first families of a city whose first 
families are none too numerous, that its cuisine appeals 
more particularly to the connoisseur than the Croesus, 
and that it makes no capital, whatever, of its exclusive 

The restaurant is large, dimly lighted, high ceilinged, 
and aristocratic to the point of snobbishness; its service 
is swift; its waiters smug, and not in any respect servile; 
and its cuisine attains the very peak of culinary perfec- 


tion. Nor is the fact that its menus are in French any 
indication that it has gone in for even a modicum of 
pretense. For the same menu is transcribed for you in 
English a gesture which bespeaks practical honesty, 
rather than pose. 

The Colony is famous for its chafing dish specialties, 
for its game, for its hors d'oeuvres, and for its addiction 
to the minutest details in matters of service. 

Your hot dishes are brought you hot, and are wheeled 
to your table, simmering on little alcohol stoves, which 
preserve their temperature and their goodness, to say 
nothing of the reputation of the kitchen. Your cold 
selections are cold, and not merely clammy cool; and for 
the most part, everything is prepared and served with 
just a little more care than it receives elsewhere. With 
this to go on, you would naturally suspect the Colony 
of being expensive and you'd be right. The Colony 
is one of the most expensive restaurants in New York. 
It is also, as we've told you, one of the most exceptional 
and exclusive. 

The Colony Restaurant French 

667 Madison Avenue (entrance on 61 st Street) 

A la carte , and expensive 
Open for luncheon and dinner 
Maitre d'hotel: Ernest 


In the Blue Ridge Mountains of 56tb Street 

There are restaurants in New York decked out like ocean 


liners, insane asylums, English Taverns, German Brau- 
stiiberls, French Brasseries, Venetian Gardens, Spanish 
Villas, California Bungalows and Dutch Kitchens. The 
Log Cabin (we'll wager that you've as good as guessed 
it already) is dressed up to resemble nothing more for- 
eign than a log cabin atop skyland in the Blue Ridges, 
or a movie actor's hut in the Sierras. 

Consequently, it stands out from the ordinary housy- 
houses, speak-easies, and swanky little doo-dab shops of 
Fifty-sixth Street, like a monocle in Harlem. 

This is to say that from the outside it has all the ear- 
marks of a log cabin. Nor is the effect lost, once you 
enter. Inside, there are rustic (or maybe they're not 
rustic), plain, unvarnished tables; green booths; orange- 
colored ash-trays and sugar-bowls; genuine, back-to- 
Virginia lanterns, which shed a warm, amber (by de- 
sign, and not at all by chance) glow and all the other 
appurtenances you'd like to remember to take along 
with you the next time you contemplate getting stranded 
on a desert island. 

It might be a good idea, too, to include a couple of 
the Log Cabin's colored waiters, who give you good, old 
Kentucky service, and who aim at all times nay, who 
veritably struggle to please. 

Nor has the management spent all its time on little 
what-nots, estimated to beguile your eye rather than 
appease your appetite. The Log Cabin rates its place 
in this book because its food is extraordinarily good; 
because its waffles are infinitely better than any this 
young scribe has set tooth into since he was a little boy; 
and chiefly, because the Log Cabin serves three dinners, 
at three varied prices, the like of which might possibly 
be duplicated but not improved upon. Which very likely 


accounts for the fact that here in this city, where table 
d'hote restaurants bud on Monday, droop on Tuesday, 
languish on Wednesday and leave their creditors entirely 
in the lurch on Thursday, there now exist two Log 
Cabin restaurants. That, as we figure it, is one-hundred 
percent progress and should be taken into consideration 
when next you're puzzled not as to what to eat but 

The Log Cabin American 

19 West 56th Street 

Open for luncheon, tea and dinner 

Table d'hote luncheon, $.65, $.75, and $.85. Table d'hote 
dinner, $1.00, $1.25 and $1.50. A la carte exceedingly 

Maitre d'hotel: Mrs. Stephen Gordon 

There is another Log Cabin Restaurant at 47 West 49th 
Street, no less rustic, but inclined to be more top-heavy 
with lady patrons (especially during the mid-day). 
Everything we've written above goes for this one too. 

Table D'Hote With a Conscience 

At Maison Louis, your table d'hote costs you exactly one 
dollar and forty cents; not a dollar-and-a-quarter, or a 
dollar-and-a-half, but a dollar-forty, and we couldn't 
tell you why, but it does, and that is that. 

Maison Louis is an old-timer, reckoned in the methods 
of best computing survival, among Fifty-second Street's 


literal epidemic of table d'hote restaurants. Maison Louis 
has been busy at the old stand for anywhere from five 
to fifteen years and maybe we're being conservative. 
Considering the short, inactive life of the average table- 
d'hote restaurant, Maison Louis is an old hand and 
good reason, too. 

For with no swankier name to go and grow on than 
merely Maison Louis, the management long ago decided 
that what a city like this one needed was a table d'hote 
restaurant that was devoted to fare alone. Maison Louis, 
despite a few gold brocade curtains, is essentially a place 
in which to eat, rather than one in which to loll: a res- 
taurant dedicated to giving you good food, and more of 
it than the majority of all the other places on Fifty- 
second Street and if you know your Fifty-second 
Street, you'll realize that this, assuredly, is no faint praise. 

For your dollar and forty cents, at Maison Louis, you 
get a six-course dinner, with fully six choices in courses 
three and four. You'll find included in course three such 
gustatorial delights as Filet of Sole Bon Femme, Crab 
Meat Dewey, or cold Filet of Halibut, Russe; you'll find 
in course four such delectables as Roast Prime Rib of 
Beef a L'Anglaise, Veal Chop Paillard, or Broiled Filet 
of Flounder, Persille. 

In short, the entire table d'hote menu is replete with 
good food, excellently prepared, wisely assorted, and 
providently priced. 

As for the atmosphere: the walls are cream, the 
chandeliers are crystal, the floors are of stone all 
of which, regarding Maison Louis, are unimportant 
observations; because, as we told you, people here are too 
busy enjoying their dinners to permit a few gay, decora- 
tive gestures, to interrupt them. 


Maison Louis French 

67 West 52nd Street 

Table d'hote luncheon, $.85 ; dinner, $1.40 

Open for luncheon and dinner, daily, including Sunday 

Maitre d'hotel: Manuel 


Bernaise in the Bois! 

For years, the Central Park Casino, under the calculating 
eye of a gentleman named Zittel, who ran it when he 
wasn't busy running his theatrical trade paper, flourished 
on the reputation of its excellent steaks, its discreet loca- 
tion, and its all-woman orchestra. 

Then, one day, along came a lot of gentlemen with 
a lot of money, and before you could say Jack Spratt, 
or even begin to read all the publicity about it in the 
newspapers, the Central Park Casino was a new hombre! 

Carpenters got busy; interior decorators got busy; 
and the very best chefs that money could buy got busy; 
and in a mere month, the Central Park Casino had 
carved itself a new set of traditions. Things work out 
exactly like that in New York. 

Now, at the Casino, all is gorgeousness, and exclusive- 
ness, and unusual fare; and, from a standpoint of 
cuisine, we unhesitatingly brand it among the very best 
restaurants in New York. 

True, the property, belonging rightfully to what 
Ex -Mayor Hylan used to refer to as the "pee-pul," has 
been leased from the city, and the prices are considerably 


higher than the majority of the good pee-pul of this here 
town can afford. Nevertheless, and notwithstanding all 
of that, we hope that the Casino goes on and on and on 
under its present management. 

The Bouchee de Champignons a la Creme, Pointes 
d'asperges which you should be able to translate by 
yourself, if you've come this far, and which are creamed 
mushrooms with asparagus tips, if you can't are posi- 
tively poetic. The Tornado, with Bernaise sauce, rates 
a chapter by itself (and then only Brillat-Savarin could 
have done it justice) ; and even to attempt a description 
of the Crab Meat en Bordure au Gratin, would be to 
misrepresent it sadly. Everything on the Casino menu 
is just as good, just as incomparable, just as indescrib- 
able, and just as expensive. 

Here, in the cool of Central Park, you can take your 
luncheon or your dinner, or can drop in after the theater, 
at which time you can dance to a simply superb orchestra, 
in equally superb surroundings, and in an atmosphere 
that knows no equal in New York. 

There are two rooms. In one of them, formal dress 
is obligatory. In the other it isn't. There are two 
orchestras, so this works no hardship. And about you 
there are people whose names are by-words in New York, 
Paris, and Monte Carlo: leading personalities in every 
profession and calling. 

The Central Park Casino French 

Central Park 

A la carte, and expensive 

Open for luncheon, dinner, and after-theater supper. 

Maitre d'hotel: C. Bonardi 



Marie, from Romany 

For the past ten years, Romany Marie has been as much 
a part of this city as tabloid newspapers, gangster assas- 
sinations, and bright lights. This, despite the fact that 
this Bohemian lady with her entourage, has moved, bag 
and baggage, with a frequency that can only be termed 
amazingly persistent; despite the fact that other Maries, 
not essentially from Romany or nearly such easily pro- 
nounceable points, have sprung up, armed with cerise 
head-dresses, antique bracelets that clink, and their own 
particular followers who invariably are more inclined to 
sit than eat, to sign a check than pay one. 

Romany Marie, and her equerry, came first into prom- 
inence at 1 5 Minetta Lane. There she dispensed unpro- 
nounceable Roumanian delicacies, cautious palm read- 
ings, and philosophic advice. There, too, she annexed 
the Dr. Marchand who nightly startles young diners 
with his amazing gift at fortune- telling (only if he likes 
you), palm-and-tea-leaf reading, and discourses on 

Then she moved to 64 Washington Square, forming 
a partnership with the Village's "Puck," otherwise? 
known as the wife of philosopher Will Durant, and 
flaunted her shingle in the face of all competition. It 
is rumored that each time "Puck" added a bracelet to 
the collection on her own ample arm, Romany Marie 
would add two bracelets; but this is probably without 

In all events, the partnership didn't take, and back 


went Romany Marie to Minetta Lane to Minetta Lane 
and a fetching orgy in futurism, indirect lighting, and 
silver walls. It was tricky, this place of hers, but only 
a surveyor could find it. 

And so, now Romany Marie has come out into the 
open again. This time with a combination of modern- 
ism, futurism and more easily understandable art, at 
42 West 8th Street. And her extensive following has 
traipsed right along after her. Here, you'll find well- 
known villagers, artists, and locally well-known 
scribes; long-haired gentlemen who will argue with 
you as to the existence of God, and cheerfully take 
either side; and short-haired ladies who can explain 
what Humanism means, and who will, if you'll let them. 

Here too, once you're settled, you may sample Rou- 
manian food not the Roumanian food of the restau- 
rant, but of the Roumanian home in all its goodness. 
There is Plachinta Cu Carna a concoction of specially 
prepared meat, baked between layers of thin, flaky 
dough; Plachinta Brinza, made with goat's milk, instead 
of meat; or Saarmala, which consists of cooked, chopped 
meat, rolled in boiled cabbage leaves, and covered over 
all with a sauce piquant. These are delightful. And 
then for dessert, there is Baclava, a native honey-cake; 
or Pondishpan, a sort of sponge cake, oozing nuts and 
raisins all of which, mind you, are the product of a 
cook once in the service of Roumanian nobility. 
(Romany Marie will tell you this herself.) 

We suggest, that for food, you visit Romany Marie's 
in the dinner hour; that for a glimpse of the Village at 
its villagiest, you come down after the theater. No mat- 
ter when you do come, however, you'll not be disap- 


Romany Marie's Roumanian 

42 West Uh Street 

Open for dinner and after-theater supper 


Maitre d'hotel: Marie, ably assisted by Dr. Marchand 


When Cuisine was King! 

When eating was an art, and cuisine was king; when 
fussy epicures selected their restaurants with the same 
amount of care that their modern prototypes select their 
Rolls-Royces, and a restaurateur was judged by the 
food he served and not the prices he charged for it; when 
the kitchen was more important than the foyer, and the 
maitre d'hotel played second fiddle to the chef, Conte's 
Restaurant was in its glory. 

Now, New York reads as it runs and eats as it reads, 
and food has become chiefly a matter of sustenance. One 
eats to live, whereas, in the old days, one really lived to 
eat. But Conte's continues to carry on. 

True, it is no longer a spiritual, festive Conte's: the 
Conte's whose culinary fame intrigued visiting poten- 
tates and local powers. But it is Conte's, nevertheless 
a Conte's whose food is superb, whose service is typically 
old-world, whose reputation still re-echoes throughout a 
city that has passed it by. 

Here, in the high-ceilinged, quiet, almost regal room, 
with its rare silver services and its costly chinaware, the 
"cameriere" continues on his soft-footed way, and car- 


ries his dignity well, just as he did when Conte was a 
name for epicures to conjure with. 

Today, as in the years gone by, Conte's serves its rare 
Antipasto, its famed Gallina Rostedi chicken, roasted 
to a beautiful, beaming brown, served with a Marinari 
sauce that is unforgettable; its Spaghetti Napolitano, 
with just the proper amount of garlic in the sauce to 
give it flavor; the Italian Bon-bons, and brightly colored, 
highly sweetened Petit Fours for which this place was 
so well known. 

The old specialties, like the old waiters, are still here. 
Only the clientele has changed, or rather, it has thinned 
out. Now, the huge, quiet, decorous room is even 
quieter; the waiters, with their starched shirt-fronts and 
continental bearing, are older and sadder of eye; huge 
trucks rumble outside on Lafayette Street; traffic whistles 
shrill; and New York carries on, carelessly, completely, 
passing by the Conte's that it once paid homage to. 

Conte's Italian 

412 Lafayette Street 

Open for luncheon and dinner 
A la cartey and reasonable 


Cricket on the Hearth 

We have told you of English Taverns, English Inns, Eng- 
lish Chop Houses; institutions where once the smoky 
rafters rang in uninhibited good-fellowship; where sting- 
ing Ale and Half-and-Half spurred chattering tongues 


to glibness dim-lit, beamed old places, where food and 
fellowship were on a par. 

Alice McCollister's is none of these. Alice McCol- 
lister's is a peep into the period of Dickens, making you 
feel, once you settle yourself inside, as though you were 
eavesdropping on your English antecedents. There is no 
echo of the Tap-room, no slight suggestion of Colonial 
conviviality here. Instead, you enter through a door 
no different than the wooden, bronze-hinged door of any 
Perthshire cottage; you find yourself in one of three large, 
cozy rooms, with floors of warm red tile, huge, sput- 
tering, crackling open-fires in fireplaces that simply urge 
you to come and sit before them, and small, but com- 
fortable, wooden chairs and tables. 

Here, then, is the antithesis of all that's rugged, hale, 
and hearty; a very treasure of a room in which to sit 
and dream on a snowy night or a blustery day; a place 
in which your dreams are happily interrupted with the 
serving of steaming hot English muffins, scads of Eng- 
lish marmalade, and tea that is tea! 

Alice McCollister's is a happy, pleasant place. Phys- 
ically but a stone's throw from the rowdy, roistering 
Greenwich Village, actually, it might be miles away. For 
here you'll find neither unkempt followers of the arts 
nor prosy children of the Village, with their whoopee 
and their woes. 

For luncheon and dinner, there is a table d'hote, served 
with all the little foreign niceties you once hoped to 
find elsewhere, but thus far, have come upon nowhere 
else. The food is delicious; the surroundings simply 
pregnant with charm; the clientele, quiet, considerate, 
the kind of people you'd expect, but hardly hope to find 
in such a place. And when you're about ready to leave, 


they will hand you a check on which is drawn a picture 
of a bandit holding up a patron with a gun. It is labeled 
"Bad News." But don't let it worry you. The "bad 
news" at Alice McCollister's is utterly reasonable, and 
far more inclined to bring you back in high spirits than 
drive you out in low ones! 

Alice McCollister's English 

43 West Uh Street 

Open for luncheon, tea and dinner 

A la carte and table d'hote, and reasonable 

Maitre d'hotel: Alice McCollister 


When Greek Meets Greek! 

When Greek meets Greek, as any vaudeville headliner 
will tell you, they open up a restaurant. They open up 
a French restaurant, or a German restaurant, or a Ba- 
varian restaurant, or a Swiss restaurant but seldom, 
as is the case with the Athena, do they open up a Greek 

The Athena is a Greek restaurant, and proud of it. 
This means that it is located one flight up in a room that 
is not gaudy, nor is it even neat a room in which a 
huge ice-box burgeons out like a wart on a pianist's index 
finger. A couple of lonesome canaries in vagabond cages 
chirrup wearily, and the waiters all wear the kind of 
yellow coats always connected in your mind with fur 

It also means that your lamb-broth, made with egg 

sauce, has lemon in it; that your bread is a faint whole- 
wheat; that your Brizola steak, served a la Grecque, tastes 
of one thing and another; that the waiter greets you, 
regardless of whether you look like a Chinaman, or a 
cross between a wolfhound and an American Indian, 
with a flow of perfectly priceless language that is at once 
wholly incomprehensible. 

The Athena Restaurant gets its name in this book, 
not because we had too good a time there, but chiefly 
because, as we told you in the first paragraph, it's Greek. 
We're not the one to slight any nation, just so long as it's 
within a comfortable taxi fare of our typewriter. Hence, 
you have the Athena. Nevertheless, the Oriental coffee 
is delightful; the genuine White Greek cheese, and the 
Balkan cheese are grand; and for dessert there is Yogourt, 
in both the ten- and fifteen-cent portions, and you 
might as well know right now that Yogourt is something 
that looks too terribly like sour milk. Anyway, here's 
the Athena. We don't particularly recommend it. We 
simply note it, and put its address down where you can 
find it. 

The Athena Restaurant Greek 

832 Sixth Avenue (at 29th Street) 

A la carte. Terribly, terribly reasonable 
Open for luncheon and dinner 

Pomp and Circumstance 

You enter the huge, oval-ceilinged, facet-walled dining 


room of the Ritz-Carlton. A slim little gentleman with 
the air of a Bavarian Cavalry Officer looks you over with 
an alert, appraising glance. If you come up to the wiry 
little gentleman's expectations, he approaches, bows low, 
clicks his heels, smiles, and leads you to a table. If you 
don't come up to this little gentleman's expectations, you 
might just as well turn around and step out into the 

Nay, you might just as well resign your director- 
ships, give your wife the keys to the vault, and buy a 
one-way steamship ticket to South America. Thus you 
have an inkling of the import of that little man's smile. 
For that, dear reader, is Theodore the Theodore of 
the Ritz. And in the event that you aren't up on things 
social, you might just as well know now that it is 
Theodore who guards the portals of the Ritz dining 
room with all the fervor and unrelenting zeal with 
which, it is said, Saint Peter watches over the very 
gates of Heaven! 

Theodore, then, is the world's most famous head- 
waiter: a headwaiter who pays homage to no one, includ- 
ing his employers at the Ritz; who accepts homage from 
the humble rich, the millionaires and the billionaires, the 
"Wall Street tycoons and the Park Avenue beau brum- 
mels; and who ranks them in this dining room his 
dining room in accordance with his own ideas, and 
wholly without recourse to any Social Register or Blue 

Little wonder, then, that it is said that Theodore is 
on the pay-roll of half the wealthy men in New York, 
who pay him material homage, regularly, that they may 
be assured of a proper welcome to his restaurant for 
their families and themselves. It is mainly Theodore, 


then, whose astuteness and unswerving ardor has made 
the Ritz, socially anyway, the restaurant of restaurants. 

Here, afternoons and evenings, you'll find the world's 
most expensively gowned women and the world's most 
leisurely men: ambassadors, financial giants, ladies who 
set the fashions and ladies who merely copy them; polo 
players and the less crusty, fusty, members of the Union 
League; Dukes and Counts and debutantes and dandies 
and dowagers and divas, basking in the tactful Theo- 
dore's smile. 

Here then, in the Ritz, Theodore comes first; the 
patrons come second; and the cuisine comes last, albeit 
by-the-by, there's no reason why it should, for the culi- 
nary skill of the Ritz-Carlton chefs is world famed, and 
the dishes that have originated here are legion! 

No culinary offering stands out for the simple reason 
that all stand out; no one thing is to be recommended 
above all others, because all are to be recommended 
which is a great bit of encouragement for those Ritz- 
Carlton connoisseurs who speak no French, for thus are 
they enabled merely to point to anything on the wholly 
French menu, and be assured of getting something 
anything and getting it better than most anywhere 

There are a number of dining rooms in the Ritz- 
Carlton, and each is as socially correct as any other. And 
of an evening, after the theater, there is dancing on the 
Ritz-Carlton Roof. It is safe to dress, when coming 
here, no matter what room you select. Remember Theo- 
dore, and be on your best! Also, it would be almost a 
case of lily-painting, to tell you that the Ritz is ex- 


The Ritz-Carlton French 

46th Street and Madison Avenue 

A la carte, and expensive 
Maitre d'hotel: Theodore 


Lounge of the Literati 

Lee Chumley's place is at 86 Bedford Street. Bedford 
Street is in Greenwich Village. From here on you'll have 
to work it out all by yourself, or ask a policeman, who 
probably won't be able to help you much either; or you 
can, if you're one of those people who don't mind hunt- 
ing for things in the phone book, telephone Mr. Lee 
Chumley, tell him where you are, and ask him how to 
get to where he is. 

When it comes to finding places in the Village, we 
unhesitatingly, unblushingly use this method ourselves, 
and it seldom fails. In order to open an establishment 
at an address like 86 Bedford Street, it was necessary for 
Mr. Chumley to find it himself, so you can see how logi- 
cally this works out. 

Anyway, Lee Chumley's is one of the restaurants that 
surely belongs on your list. For one thing, it is quite 
definitely the headquarters of New York's choosier 
literati we mean the kind of artists and writers and 
dramatic critics to whom the sheer love of their calling 
is secondary to the remuneration to be derived from it; 
ladies and gentlemen who, albeit they bow to the arts, 
positively salaam to the cashier! Which is as it should 
be. Hence, of an evening, you'll find, tucked away in 


the dim-lit crevices and corners of Lee Chumley's, or sit- 
ting in the comfortable glow of the crackling open fire 
that burns in the outer room, scads and scads of the 
people whose names you'll see always, consistently, in 
print heading columns in the daily papers and articles 
of current magazines, and on the popular-seller shelves 
of the book-shops. 

Here, night after night, you'll come upon Robert Gar- 
land, the dramatic critic of the Evening Telegram (who 
first introduced the writer to the charm of Chumley's) , 
Ben Washer, that newspaper's bright-eyed young col- 
umnist; Alice Hughes, a star woman-reporter; Harry 
Elmer Barnes, theologist and scribe; Lee De Forest, the 
radio wizard; Hey wood Broun, the essayist; Sinclair 
Lewis, Max Eastman, Upton Sinclair; Harry Hansen, 
most widely quoted of all book reviewers; James Thurber, 
of the New Yorker magazine; Peter Arno, ace of 
illustrators; and so many, many others that we could go 
right along like this forever. 

Among the other things, there is the food: good, un- 
usual food, covering considerable geographic scope; food, 
ranging from the Scallopini Marsala of sunny Italy, to 
the Chili Con Carne, with steamed corn meal, of sizzling 
Mexico. And just to preserve the globe-trotter at- 
mosphere, whether your order be for Southern fried 
chicken or a boiled New England dinner, it is served 
to you by swift, fleet Japanese and Filipino waiters, who 
move noiselessly, and unobtrusively about. 

The atmosphere here is restful. The front room at 
Chumley's, softly lighted and with the afore-mentioned 
fireplace, houses most of the celebrities. The rear room, 
which is just as large, is brighter and better lighted, 
and more popular with those non-adventurers who must 


see what they're ordering, and then make certain that 
they're getting it. 

Too, by way of proof that Chumley's is genuinely 
literary, there is a border, about chin-high, encircling 
both rooms, made entirely of the framed book- jackets 
of works turned out, each one, by a Chumley patron. 
In keeping with the idiosyncrasies of purely literary folk, 
Chumley wisely serves a Sunday breakfast from noon 
until five o'clock, and a regular dollar dinner anywhere 
from four in the afternoon until very nearly that hour 
in the morning. You'll like Chumley's, and we suggest 
that you don't think of passing it up. 

Lee Chumley's American 

86 Bedford Street 

Open from noon until you're ready to go home next 

Table d'hote, $1.00. A la carte extremely reasonable 
Maitre d'hotel: Leon 


See Naples and Don't Die 

Most of the Italian restaurants in New York are in- 
clined to be paradoxical. They are run by Italians, serve 
alleged Italian delicacies, and yet, with the exception of 
an occasional straggler who couldn't tell you how he 
came to be there himself, they number scarcely a single 
Italian among their patrons. 

Luigi's, however, is different. Luigi's is an Italian 

restaurant, serving genuine Italian food (the Bologna 
school of cookery) chiefly to Italians. And for the bene- 
fit of those Italians who might now and again become a 
bit homesick, the Luigi walls are hung with mighty 
murals which, with the use of just a little bit of imagi- 
nation, immediately carry a pensive patron back to 
Naples, and Genoa Firenze, and Florence, and elsewhere. 
Anyway, the views and vistas are all there; the lights are 
just dim enough to make you think that the pastels are 
better than you well know they are; and besides, you 
don't come to Luigi's to study the scenery, but the food. 

And the food is well worth coming to Luigi's for; 
well worth taxi-ing through what very probably is New 
York's most unattractive neighborhood and barging 
through the clump of expostulating locals that buzz 
around Luigi's doorstep like flies around a jar of marma- 

Here then, once you're settled and have gotten the 
murals happily out of your mind, you may sample Italy's 
craftiest cuisine. 

There is the famous Bolognese Finocchi (pronounced 
Fin-okee) a concoction of soft vegetable-like substance, 
served pear-shape, covered with leaves, and stuffed with 
the famed Italian Romano cheese, which is baked right 
in. You watch the other people around you and follow 
suit. You gently peel back the leaves, which are more 
decorative than digestible and then where are you? On 
West Houston Street but it might as easily be Heaven! 

Here you may have the true Italian Scallopini Con 
Fungi (and don't be alarmed, because mushrooms, as any 
scientist will tell you, are a fungus growth, and Fungi 
is mushrooms, in Italian) which is a dish only to be set 
before graduates of Epicurus and no mere devotees; and 


here, too, you will be served the true Pano Sicilian, 
which is genuine Italian bread, and totally unlike the 
substance that is handed you in most other Italian restau- 
rants in lieu of genuine Italian bread. Also, you get 
real Italian drip coffee (Italy's answer to the French 
"Express") ; and incomparable Zabaglione. 

Luigi's, as you can judge from this, serves an extraor- 
dinarily fine Italian dinner a dinner designed to meet 
and appease the tastes of genuine native epicures, who 
know what's what. 

Luigi's Italian 

134 West Houston Street 

Open for luncheon and dinner 
A la carte, and reasonable 
Maitre d'hotel: Luigi 


Caviar to the Duke! 

The Caviar Restaurant has a double distinction. Any- 
body that has been in New York for longer than nine 
days will tell you that with a name like that the Caviar 
simply must be a Russian restaurant. Its chief distinc- 
tion, then, to get right to the point, is that it has a 
name like that and isn't a Russian restaurant. It really 
isn't. Rather, the cuisine at the Caviar comes closer to 
being international than otherwise and this brings us 
right down to that restaurant's second claim to distinc- 
tion. This is its food. The food at the Caviar is the 


stuff that the conversations of chronic gourmets are 
made of. And these same conversations go even further 
than that. 

Numerous restaurants in New York excel in their 
culinary dexterity, only to have the most savory of their 
concoctions simply ruined in transit. For the test of a 
truly great restaurant is that fatal ten seconds and, 
alas, too frequently ten minutes that elapse between 
the time the food leaves the kitchen and the time in 
which it arrives at your table. For, as any accredited 
epicure will tell you, hot foods, to be enjoyed, must be 
eaten hot. Not lukewarm, or downright cool, but hot. 
And the Caviar is one of the few restaurants we know of 
to appreciate that all-important fact. Further, the 
Caviar does something about it! 

Your hot soup is brought to you hot its temperature 
preserved by means of a small bronze alcohol stove, 
which, set upon a serving table, is wheeled directly to 
your table. The meat and vegetable courses are brought 
to you in red-hot, covered crocks, from which you help 
yourself as you're inclined. And so it is throughout your 

Everything else has been given the same careful 
thought in the Caviar. The room has a high ceiling; the 
walls are harmoniously colored; there is a thick, luxurious 
rug, underfoot; and tables are lighted individually and 

The people around you are exactly the sort you would 
expect to find in such a restaurant: conservative Park 
Avenueites; less conservative, albeit no less well-to-do 
Broad way ites; and people (the class is failing fast) who 
realize that gold ceilings do not a restaurant make. In 
short, the Caviar is a quiet, refined restaurant, catering 


to a clientele that is every bit as particular about the food 
that is served as it is about the atmosphere it is served in. 
And we mustn't forget to tell you that the Caviar is 
expensive; and there's no use quibbling about it, either. 
The Caviar is expensive! 

The Caviar French 

138 West 52nd Street 

Open for luncheon and dinner 
A la carte y and expensive! 
Maitre d' hotel: Leon 

Robert) the Magnificent 

You might be entering the ante-room of the Sultan of 
Johore a Sultan of Johore with a sympathetic leaning 
toward modernism and pastels. A gentleman who might 
be chief butler in a Park Avenue manse bows low, opens 
a huge, silent door, and graciously ushers you into a foyer 
of apple-green, sprinkled with examples of the Modernist 
school of furniture: odd lamps, odd tables, and the 
oddest sort of chairs. You tread a deep-napped, rose- 
tinted rug that is positively buoyant under foot, until 
presently you find yourself, not in the ante-room of 
the palace of the Sultan of Johore or in a Cecil B. 
DeMille movie set, but in the restaurant proper of 

All around you there are red-leathered, modernistic 
booths: ruby settings for tiny tables in spotless white 


and scintillating silver, gleaming dully in the dim, artistic 
light of a score of modernistic lamps. 

The deep-napped, soft, rose rug has preceded you here, 
creating a veritable million-dollar effect, and leading you 
to hope that no one notices the accidental run in your 
stocking, and that your cravat is on straight. Such is the 
glory that is Robert's a glory for which you will pres- 
ently be charged a paltry thirty cents cover charge (per 
person) , and which you will find little enough, for the 
joy of sitting in an atmosphere that appears to be well 
up in six figures. 

And don't you go off thinking that Robert's is merely 
an ultra-gorgeous rendezvous in which to see, and be 
seen, for Robert's is essentially a fine restaurant. 

Here, the Sweetbread, under Glass Eugenie, is some- 
thing that you'll remember for full many a day; the 
Pheasant Roti a la Choucrout (in other words, roast 
pheasant with sauerkraut) is neither too gamey nor too 
flat, and if anything, is inclined to be too utterly deli- 
cious; and the Filet of Sole Venitienne borders closely 
onto perfection. Here, the Chateau Briand, avec Pommes 
Soufflee (for two) is priced at a mere seven dollars; and 
the meanest, meekest sort of potato commands a full 
forty-five cents. And yet, as the cigaret advertisements 
tell you, such popularity must be deserved. 

For all about you you will find full tables, at both the 
luncheon and the dinner-hour; full tables, and happy, 
well-fed ladies and gentlemen, whose names are familiar 
both in the arts and in the Blue Book. 

And with all the foregoing to go on, it seems prac- 
tically repetitive to tell you that Robert's is honestly, 
unabashedly, almost eagerly, expensive! 


Robert's French 

33 West 5 5 tb Street 

Open for luncheon and dinner 
A la carte, and expensive! 
Maitre d'hotel: Ralph Binder 

Over the River 

Gage and Tollner's is to Brooklyn what the Statue of 
Liberty is to New York Harbor. Aventuring epicures, 
rumbling subway-ward under the river, climb out, blink, 
and ask to see first, the view of Manhattan from the St. 
George Hotel Roof; second, the swans in Prospect Park, 
and third, Gage and Tollner's and sometimes they re- 
verse the order and ask to be shown to Gage and Toll- 
ner's first. 

And this is understandable, for Gage and Tollner's is 
one of those places which, without the artful aid of 
modernistic decorations, artistic menus, or waiters who 
bend in the middle like Roxy ushers, has managed to 
keep pace with this budding borough purely on the 
strength of what it serves, and not at all because of who 
comes there to get it! Gage and Tollner's is a restaurant 
with absolutely nothing to recommend it save the best 
sea-food obtainable within a radius of a couple of hundred 
miles, a system for doing wholly original things to wholly 
unoriginal inhabitants of the sea, and the most careful, 
conscientious, and friendly service and servitors to be 
found west of Virginia. 


At Gage and Tollner's, you are waited upon, not 
merely by colored men, but by colored gentlemen. If 
our memory serves us accurately, the least of these has 
been in service here for a minimum of nineteen years, or 
long before Volstead was anything but a name on a 
college diploma; and the genial head-man, Ike, has been 
there for twenty-nine years! 

In that time, swanky restaurants have come and gone ; 
movie palaces have been built and demolished; and many 
of the patrons then young, hopeful law students 
have become great corporation lawyers, Supreme Court 
judges, and austere magistrates. Things have changed 
but the changes haven't affected Gage and Tollner's 
at all. 

Bowing to progress, proprietor Seth Bradford Dewey 
has installed electric lights, but they are wired through 
the old gas fixtures, thus enabling this old, almost historic 
spot to maintain its genuine old-fashioned aspect and 
atmosphere. New dishes have been added to the menu 
from time to time, but the old chefs prepare them, the 
old waiters serve them, and the old management super- 
vises their preparation; so what more could one, fed up 
with French menus, Greek kitchens, and pseudo-swank, 
ask for. 

The specialties at Gage and Tollner's are many and 
varied, but we would recommend that you try, on your 
first visit at least, a dish labeled in utter frankness on the 
menu, "broiled clam bellies." It was Seth Dewey who 
explained to us, quite earnestly, that the reason they are 
called "broiled clam bellies" is that they are "broiled 
clam bellies"; and there doesn't seem to be anything else 
to call them. Nevertheless, clams have never been so 
good, and you may lay to that. 


In season, a specialty is swordfish steak and it's real 
swordfish, and real steak, served up as deliciously as only 
Gage and Tollner's, which first put swordfish on its 
menus, can serve it. And there are a dozen other dishes 
that are worth traveling to Brooklyn for; there are sweet, 
tiny scallops; the best deviled crab youVe ever tasted; 
crab meat au gratin that is incomparable; and to go with 
any of these, there is a tomato and lettuce salad with a 
dressing which only the popular Ike holds the key to, and 
which you won't get unless you particularly ask Ike to 
prepare it for you. There never has been anything like it. 

Here, in this bare, busy, antiquated room, you'll see 
such important personages of Brooklyn as Harry M. 
Lewis, Judge Grover C. Moskowitz, Harris M. Crist, 
Milton Hertz, Meyer Steinbrink, and Arthur L. Lipp- 

And this is merely a beginning, for the bigwigs of 
Brooklyn and the epicures of Manhattan think of Gage 
and Tollner's when they think of sea-food, and when 
they think of sea-food, in they come. And Seth Dewey, 
who grew up with many of them, and who has never 
forgotten any of them, greets them cordially, seats them, 
tips them off as to the Plat de Jour, and sits and talks with 
them of other days. There is no other place in all New 
York like Gage and Tollner's, and, as a matter of fact, 
there couldn't be, unless Seth Dewey were twins! 

Gage and Tollner's American 

374 Fulton Street, Brooklyn 

Open for luncheon and dinner 
A la carte. Prices are average 

Maitre d'hotel: Seth Bradford Dewey 



Wherein the Author takes pen in hand and men- 
tions, in the second place, a good many of the more 
noteworthy restaurants that he might have 
mentioned in the first place 

THE COLLEGE INN, 3100 Broadway, real North of 
China dishes; to avoid Chop Suey and Chow Mein, ask for 
"Jowser" . . . THE HOME HUNGARIAN, 79th 
Street, near 2nd Avenue, goulash, chicken paprika . . . 
SCANDINAVIAN ARMS, 128 East 45th Street, Smor- 
gasbord, and Scandinavian delicacies . . . THE RUS- 
SIAN TEA ROOM, next to Carnegie Hall, on 57th 
Street, rendezvous of the higher-hat Russian singers . . . 
THE ORIENTAL, 4 Pell Street, what the Chinese Del- 
monico's thinks it is ... EL RANCHO, 47th Street 
and 7th Avenue, Chili, Tortillas, and taxi chauffeurs 
. . . FORNOS, 228 West 52nd Street, ditto . . . 
GURARD, 115 Fulton Street, grand cheese pie ... 
TOKIWA, 44 West 46th Street, Hawaiian- Japanese . . . 
LORANGE, 20 West 49th Street, Russian and artistic, 
with a chef who once served Royalty (as what chef 
hasn't?) . . . QUAN'S, Hotel Alamac, 71st Street and 
Broadway, ex-chef of the Presidential Yacht Mayflower, 
serving expensive curried and American food . . . 
HENRY'S, 321 West 51st Street, grand Italian table 
d'hote dinner, for $1.25 ... AS YOU LIKE IT 
COFFEE HOUSE, 75 Fifth Avenue, interesting, in the 
Metro-Goldwyn period . . . ELLEN JOHNSON, 153 
Cedar Street, the best quick business men's lunch in 
town, with sandwiches that are sandwiches! 


DIXIE KITCHEN, 1 East 48th Street, Southern special- 
ties, but Southern! . . . THE CRILLON, 277 Park 
Avenue, smart, swanky, and expensive . . . CHEZ 
LINA, 61 West 50th Street, an ample French table 
d'hote dinner for $1.25 ... LUIGINO'S, 113 West 
48th, Italian, and worth a visit . . . THE VOISIN, 
53rd and Park Avenue, as Park Avenue likes it ... 
VANITY FAIR, 4 West 40th, good food, and inex- 
pensive . . . LATIN RESTAURANT, 147 West 48th 
Street, old-world atmosphere and a modern table d'hote 
. . . AU GRAND VATEL, 145 West 55th Street, 
French, and excellent cuisine, and don't let the name 
frighten you ... RICHELIEU RESTAURANT, 275 
Madison Avenue, ditto . . . ARENA RESTAURANT, 
148 West 46th, Italian, and an old-timer . . . BER- 
GER'S RESTAURANT, 115 West 49th Street, not 
Italian, an old-timer . . . THE BRASS RAIL, 745 
Seventh Avenue, the homiest food in all New York, 
served in a rush . . . CARUSO SPAGHETTI PLACE, 
40 West 33rd Street (also at 46 Cortlandt Street and 104 
West 42nd Street), the name tells everything . . . 
CHEZ MAURICE, 49 West 47th Street (chez, which 
used to mean "home" in French, now means "table 
d'hote" in New Yorkese) . . . MILBROOK'S RES- 
TAURANT, 102 West 43rd (also at 212 West 72nd 
Street and 2385 Broadway), the kind of food a lot of 
imitators have attempted, unsuccessfully . . . GER- 
SON'S, 47th Street, just east of Broadway, where 
vaudevillians have their names in brass plates on the 
walls, and song publishers, Broadway columnists, and 
actors are so thick they get in your hair . . . GYPSY 
TEA SHOP, 435 Fifth Avenue, your fortune in tea 
leaves, and a dainty light lunch, for $.75. 


LE BOURGET RESTAURANT, 17 West 50th Street, 
French, with fixings . . . MAISON JACQUES, 44 
West 52nd Street, we told you "Chez" meant table 
d'hote; well, "Maison" does too! . . . MAISON LA- 
FITTE, 144 West 55th Street, ditto here . . . 
ZUCCA'S, 118 West 49th Street, exactly what visitors 
from the middle west expect to find in an Italian table 
d'hotery . . . ARTISTS AND MODELS, 228 West 
52nd Street, just what you'd expect to find, plus good 
food . . . ROTH'S GRILL, 725 Seventh Avenue, the 
homiest, wholesomest food, to say nothing of the most 
generous portions of it, in the hungriest Tap -room at- 
mosphere in town; try the corned beef and cabbage and 
the deep-dish pies here . . . O. GLANTZ, 104 West 
45th, Jewish provender, and well-cooked, too . . . 
Street, one of the best-known chop houses in town, and 
not inexpensive . . . GUFFANTFS, 274 Seventh Ave- 
nue, once the most famous Italian restaurant in all New 
York and still good . . . DEL PEZZO, 100 West 40th 
Street, try the spaghetti, with anchovies and clams, 
Fifth Avenue, good, homey food, and the Fifth Avenue 
ice cream is something to write home about . . . AMER- 
a little of each, and good . . . BEEM NOM LOW, 826 
Sixth Avenue, Chop Suey, and Pineapple-Almond Chow 
Mein that is ahead of them all ... CARTERET RES- 
TAURANT, 56 East 41st Street, one of the old-timers, 
and one of the best, with all the atmosphere of a gen- 
tlemen's club . . . FAY'S OYSTER AND CHOP 
HOUSE, 239 West 125th Street, good forty years ago, 
and better now; the sea-food is sea-food . . . FRAN- 


ZISKANER, 1591 Second Avenue, German, and grand 
German but real German fare . . . GRAND CEN- 
Terminal, Lower Level, the neatest oyster bar anywhere 
in town . . . SEA COVE RESTAURANT, 234 West 
48th Street, specialists in sea-food, in an atmosphere that 
is delightfully different from most other sea-food em- 


THE EVERGLADES, 203 West 48th Street, music, 
dancing, a girly floor show, and a dandy table d'hote 
dinner, served from 6 P. M. till 2 A. M., Lackawanna 2820 
at 48th Street, Nils T. Granlund, and the most beautiful 
girls in the world, dancing, and a no-cover policy, with 
a minimum food charge of $1.50, Chickering 2572 . . . 
the PARAMOUNT GRILL, 46th Street and 8th Ave- 
nue, a show, good music, and a reasonable table d'hote, 
with an air-cooling system that is aces in summer, 
Chickering 7580 . . . JANSSEN'S MIDTOWN HOF- 
BRAU, 1620 Broadway, ditto here, Columbus 7061 
. . . CENTRAL PARK CASINO, Central Park, one 
room for patrons who dress formally, one room for 
patrons who don't, excellent cuisine, and expensive, for 
reservations, phone Rhinelander 3034 . . . THE 
RITZ-CARLTON ROOF, Madison Avenue at 46th 
Street, a little bit of Persia, with grand cuisine under 
the watchful eye of the famous Theodore Titze, and 
the Ritz-Carlton dance orchestra, and you'd better 


dress, dinner, and after-theater supper, Plaza 4600 . . . 
THE COMMODORE GRILL, 42nd Street and Lex- 
ington Avenue, an ample dance floor, delightful music 
and excellent cuisine, a mecca for the out-of-town 
buyer, Vanderbilt 6000 . . . HOTEL ST. REGIS 
SEAGLADES, 5th Avenue and 55th Street, the smart- 
est Joseph Urban achievement in New York, Vincent 
Lopez music, and expensive, you'd better dress, Plaza 
4500 . . . PARK CENTRAL HOTEL, 55th Street at 
Seventh Avenue, the Roof in summer and the Grill in 
winter, good music, ample dance space, and good food, 
cover charge after 10 P. M., Circle 8000 . . . BILT- 
MORE CASCADES, 43rd Street at Madison Avenue, 
nineteen floors above Manhattan, good music, and a quiet 
clientele, and you'd better dress here, too, Murray Hill 
7920 . . . HOTEL AMBASSADOR, Park Avenue 
and 51st Street, Green Room and Italian Garden, 
no roof, but an air-cooling system all year round, 
delightful before 10.30 P. M. and not much doing 
after that, Wickersham 1000 ... HOTEL GOV- 
ERNOR CLINTON, 31st Street and Seventh Ave- 
nue, another cooling system, another bunch of out-of- 
town buyers, good food, reasonable prices, and room to 
dance, Pennsylvania 3400 . . . HOTEL PENNSYL- 
VANIA, 33rd Street and Seventh Avenue, Roof in 
summer, Grill in winter and pleasantly busy at all sea- 
sons, good music, huge dance space, and a low cover 
charge after 10 P. M., Pennsylvania 5000 . . . HOTEL 
McALPIN, 34th Street and Sixth Avenue, Roof in sum- 
mer, Grill in winter, and both are delightful and bus- 
tling, a low cover charge after 1 P. M. here, too, Penn- 
sylvania 5700 . . . THE HOTEL BOSSERT, Mon- 
tague Street, Brooklyn, the world-famous Marine Roof, 


decked out as a ship, and offering the smartest view to 
be found in a hundred miles, Main 3800 ... THE ST. 
GEORGE HOTEL, Clark Street, Brooklyn, another 
grand view, ample dance floor, and plenty of incentive 
to use it, Main 10000 

Numerous other well-known Manhattan Hostelries of- 
fer music, dancing, and entertainment, but the author 
has selected the foregoing as most wholly satisfactory, 
and all-inclusive. 



A Conscientious Chapter on Places to Go, 

For Stay-outs Who Simply Can't Be Induced 

To Go Home! 

A night club is a place in which you pay four dollars 
for the privilege of sitting down and paying a dollar 
and a half for a bottle of White Rock. A sandwich that 
you wouldn't own a bowing acquaintance with in a 
delicatessen store costs a dollar and a half; the hat-check 
girl expects another half dollar; and when you get to 
be really well-known, the hostess will permit you to pelt 
her with little white tissue-paper snow-balls and call 
the young ladies of the chorus by their first names. A 
gentleman that makes it a habit to drop into a night 
club night after night is called a "spender"; if he hands 
hundred-dollar bills out to the boys in the orchestra 
he is called a "sucker"; and if he objects to paying thirty- 
six dollars for a bottle of alleged wine, he is called a 

Nobody really knows who invented night clubs, or 
why. Another thing nobody really knows, is why, with 
a very few exceptions, night clubs are able to make out 
at all. The chief reasons for this doubt, is that ( 1 ) they 
give you absolutely nothing for your money. (2) They 
charge you thirty times more than it is worth. (3) The 


waiters, captains, and headwaiters are quite evidently 
employed on the basis of their ability to be haughty, 
upstage, and thoroughly disagreeable to all patrons. 
(4) They not only overcharge for everything, but 
overcharge defiantly. And (5) they offer you, in ex- 
change for the sacrifice of four or five hours in a nice 
clean bed, the privilege of sitting four-abreast behind 
a cramped little table originally intended for one, and 
alternately getting up and making perfectly futile mo- 
tions on an alleged dance floor that even a ringworm 
could make no progress on. 

These are the reasons, then, why, season after season, 
the Broadway wiseacres conscientiously predict that 
night clubs are on their last legs, and that it won't be 
long now. In the face of such dire predictions, and the 
sad shakings of the head that accompany them, certain 
of New York's clubs continue to thrive, and grow fat 
on the fatuousness of the land, as it were. You can't 
prove anything by us. 

It is obvious, however, that those clubs which of late 
do survive, have, season after season, increased their 
programs of entertainment, bettering it as to quality 
and abetting it as to quantity. They have lowered their 
cover charges, or done away with them entirely, and 
have, in the face of all protesting precedent, begun to 
give their patrons a little something for their money. 
Even in a city like New York, it seems, the other give- 
all-and-take-nothing system couldn't last more than 
five or six years. 

The following night clubs, then, have been selected 
as being representative of Manhattan's Broadway night 
life, and of the new give-them-a-little-something-for- 
their-money school. Some of them have, as a matter 


of fact, entered so enthusiastically into the new order 
of things, and have taken to giving so much that, al- 
though they play to full houses nightly, they aren't 
making any money. It is to be hoped, however, that 
they're having a lot of fun. 

THE CLUB LIDO ... 806 Seventh Avenue 

Where Park Avenue does its cutting up in a nice, 
refined way. Headquarters, season after season, for 
what, in the vernacular of New York night life 
is termed the carriage trade. A smart room; smart 
entertainment; and a commensurate cover charge. 
And you'd better dress. Columbus 2840. 

THE CLUB RICHMAN . . . 157 West 56th Street 
Open after 10.30 P. M. One of the few clubs in 
New York that has consistently followed a policy 
of giving you more for your money than you have 
any reason to expect, and charging plenty, despite 
that. The biggest names in the Broadway enter- 
tainment world invariably are to be found on 
Club Richman programs. The room is charming, 
conservatively beautiful, and the service is of the 
best. The clientele is the younger, less conserva- 
tive carriage trade. The Richman is under the 
management of Mr. Lou Schwartz, which, to alert 
local night clubists, means everything. The cover 
charge varies, but seldom grows less. Average: 
$4.00 nightly; $5.00 on Saturday nights. Circle 

THE CLUB ARGONAUT ... 151 West 54th Street 
Texas Guinan, assisting some of the wealthiest gen- 

tlemen in these parts in giving a couple of dozen 
little (and talented) girls a great big hand. The 
atmosphere is rowdy, and all the more fun because 
of that. Texas Guinan is Texas Guinan, and you 
can't say more than that. You'll have a grand time 
here, and you'll pay and pay and pay for it, too. 
But it's worth it! Open from 10.30 P. M. until the 
last limp customer goes home! Circle 7237. 

THE CHATEAU MADRID . . . 231 West 5 4th Street 
Another of Lou Schwartz's places, catering less to 
the carriage trade and more to Broadway. There's 
a roof which rolls back on hot summer nights and 
lets a little air in; a swell orchestra to dance to; a 
perfectly hilarious program of entertainment; and 
that inevitable cover charge, to take the edge off. 
But it really doesn't, quite! Columbus 0193. 

THE SALON ROYAL ... 310 West 58th Street 

The inimitable Florence fresh from Parisian tri- 
umphs or at least she was a little while ago; an 
exceedingly "hot" band, and an entertainment pro- 
gram that rocked all Paris. The clientele is a late 
one and consists of the creme de la creme of Broad- 
way. You'd better dress here, too. Columbus 6191. 

THE VILLA VALLEE ... 12 East 60th Street 

The Rudy, himself, crooning soft, passionate mel- 
odies of love, in a setting that was just made for 
soft, passionate melodies of love. Rudy Vallee's 
Connecticut Yankees to dance to, and one of the 
most charming rooms in all New York to dance 
in. The clientele is inclined to be collegiate, which 
means that in winter you'd better bring along your 
raccoon coat. And dress. Volunteer 6000, 


THE SILVER SLIPPER ... 201 West 48th Street 
The Slipper has an amazing habit of opening one 
minute and closing the next. Nevertheless, it is 
one of the most scintillating rooms in town, when 
it is open. The clientele is strictly Broadway, 
which means that big names are so numerous they 
get you all muddled. Also, you can always count 
on a good show, a good orchestra, and a good, stiff 
cover charge. Chickering 6999. 

CLUB EL PATIO ... 134 West 52nd Street 

A new and powerful bidder for Manhattan's car- 
riage trade. Conservative music; conservative en- 
tertainment; and conservative surroundings. Neat, 
rather than gaudy. Everybody dresses here. A 
grand place in which to demonstrate local night 
life to visiting New Englanders. 

CLUB MONTMARTRE ... 205 West 50th Street 
The oldest from a standpoint of endurance 
night club in New York, still humming along 
under the friendly eye of Charlie Journal; and 
dress is obligatory. Good music, a charming room, 
and a downright Continental clientele. Circle 6673. 

THE SEAGLADES . . . Hotel St. Regis, 

5th Avenue at 55th Street 

Vincent Lopez not playing Nola any longer in 
the most beautiful surroundings in New York. The 
famed Joseph Urban surpassed himself here. The 
clientele is typically Park Avenue, with a smatter- 
ing of those who really like Vincent Lopez and 
those who come to see why it is they don't really 
like him. Dress is obligatory. Plaza 4500, 


way and 48th Street 

A show, comprising two-score of New York's most 
gorgeous blonde young ladies, who perform in a 
huge, lavish room, which, despite its size, is rarely 
ever large enough to seat the throngs that clamor 
for admittance. So, you see, there must be some- 
thing in it. The Master of Ceremonies here is 
N. T. G. the Nils T. Granlund of radio and 
vaudeville fame. No cover charge, but a minimum 
food charge. The Hollywood is all glitter, glamor 
and gorgeousness, and reminds you of a moving 
picture theater lobby. You can have a grand time 
here, and reasonably, too. Chickering 2572. 




WILL OAKLAND'S TERRACE, 51st Street and 
Broadway, listed previously as a restaurant, two late, 
lavish, breath-taking shows, full of blonde and brunette 
beauties, and the nicest, friendliest, non-Broadway at- 
mosphere in town, to say nothing of a grand orchestra, 
and a roomy dance floor . . . THE EVERGLADES, 
48th Street, west of Broadway, an old-timer, two 
nightly shows here, too, with good music, good fun, and 
plenty of room in which to enjoy yourself . . . THE 
CLUB ABBEY, Hotel Harding, 54th Street and Broad- 
way, female impersonators, a fairly undressed chorus, 
and a clientele composed of people who never go home, 


very Broadway . . . THE CLUB CALAIS, 125 West 
51st Street . . . More female impersonators, and more 
patrons who seem to like that sort of thing . . . THE 
THE RUSSIAN ART, all three are described elsewhere 
in this book, and function as after-theater places, too 
. . . And as to the hotels, there is dancing and entertain- 
ment at ... THE ROOSEVELT GRILL, 45th Street 
and Madison Avenue . . . THE NEW YORKER 
HOTEL, 34th Street and Eighth Avenue . . . THE 
PARAMOUNT GRILL, 46th Street near Eighth Ave- 
Street and Seventh Avenue, Roof (in summer), Avia- 
tion Grill (in winter) . . . THE ASTOR, 45th 
Street and Broadway, Roof (in summer), Indian Grill 
(in winter) . . . THE HOTEL BILTMORE CAS- 
CADES, 43rd Street and Madison Avenue . . . THE 
COMMODORE GRILL, 42nd Street, near Lexington 
Avenue . . . THE HOTEL PENNSYLVANIA, 33rd 
Street and Seventh Avenue, Roof (in summer), Grill 
(in winter) . . . THE HOTEL Me ALPIN, 34th Street 
and Sixth Avenue . . . And in Brooklyn . . . THE 
HOTEL BOSSERT, Montague Street, Marine Roof (in 
summer), Urban Grill (in winter) . . . and the 
HOTEL ST. GEORGE, Clark Street, Roof (in sum- 

And in the event that these haven't worn you out, you 
will find additional dine-and-dance places in the chapters 
and . . HARLEMANIA. 



When Broadway lights dim and flicker out, and waiters 
in the local night clubs languidly stack chairs on the 
dance floors; when saxophone players, limp from an 
evening of enthusiastic tootling, duck wearily into the 
subway kiosks; when downtown proprietors gleefully 
tally up the night's receipts, and the first clank of the 
milk cans is discernible through Broadway's dissipated 
roar, all Broadway heads for Harlem. 

For Harlem is to New York what Montmartre is to 
Paris: a spontaneous, riotous, everlasting round of Jazz 
and Jazzmania; of effervescent entertainers and evanes- 
cent visitors; of popular night clubs and unbridled 
speak-easies; a burying ground for the Blues; a parade 
ground for the Blacks; and a three-ringed circus for 
the curious; a strange collection of squander and squalor; 
a land where color cuts no figure, and currency cuts no 
swath; where the banker rubs shoulders with his ele- 
vator operator, and portly presidents are one with their 
porters; a land that knows neither class, nor creed, nor 
caste a playground for the rich, wherein the poor are 
just as welcome. 

Harlem, too, is a land of contradictions; a strange 
admixture of boulevards and brothels, of luxury and 
poverty, finesse and filth; of parties and pathos; of 
gaudy night clubs in dowdy tenements; of rent parties, 


and mild parties and wild parties, where whites mix 
with blacks, blacks mix with browns, and browns mix 
with "passers"; an impassioned, unbridled footloose and 
fancy-free strip of land where everything goes, and 
everybody comes to see it on its way. 

Here you'll find breakfast dances that run from the 
evening of one day to the evening of the next, society 
women fawning on colored gigolos, and business men 
supporting colored ladies of the chorus. Here, too, you'll 
find Harlem's elite, the boys and girls who made good 
farther downtown and who have come north once again 
to bask in the glory that awaits them; bulking negroes, 
in cream-colored Packards; diminutive negroes, num- 
bered among the most successful composers of the day; 
great "hot" singers, great dancers, great actors, success- 
ful producers, writers, painters, and lawyers to say 
nothing of the small fry who turn out nightly to see 

Every bleak and poorly-lighted block harbors a hun- 
dred speak-easies; every blinking, winking light on every 
boulevard connotes a cabaret; and every taxi-driver 
knows a hundred places that are just a little bit wilder 
than the one you've come from. Everybody is awake, 
alert and on the job; there's jazz in the air, in the body 
and in the soul of every Harlemite! 

"Steer" and "Gyp" joints thrive on the pickings of 
the fatuous and foolish; gin flows freely as water, and 
tastes but little different; barbecue restaurants, coffee- 
pots, quick-lunches, fish-and-chips places, and oyster 
bars are as thick as a German waiter's dialect; business 
booms; purveyors of entertainment in every and any 
form harvest a rich reward, and nobody quite knows 
what it's all about which makes it Harlem! 


Here, then, is a city within a city; a city that speaks 
its own language, understands its own inhabitants, and 
sleeps while other cities work, and plays while other 
cities sleep. To try to "cover" Harlem and its thou- 
sand and one resorts in anything smaller than a tele- 
phone book would be an utter impossibility. For, as 
we've told you, every other house harbors a speak-easy, 
a restaurant, or a combination of both. Consequently, 
all we have been able to do in this book has been to 
list those places which provide first-rate entertainment; 
places in which white visitors are welcome; and finally, 
places in which, if a white visitor isn't actually welcome, 
at least he can consider himself reasonably safe. 

We want merely to add this single caution: Don't 
frequent Harlem's side-streets; don't let taxi-drivers, or 
the Seventh and Lenox Avenues guides who'll volunteer 
their services, steer you into any place you're not per- 
fectly familiar with; and finally, don't forget that Har- 
lem is primarily for Harlemites, and that the majority 
of the colored people you'll see around you are ladies 
and gentlemen, and act that way, even if the majority 
of the white people you'll rub elbows with are ladies 
and gentlemen and don't act that way! And have a 
nice time! 

THE COTTON CLUB . . . 142nd Street and Lenox 


Veritably, the aristocrat of Harlem. Here, you'll 
find an all-colored floor show (generally staged by 
Broadway's Danny Healy) of positively Ziegfeldian 
proportions; an all-white clientele which generally 
includes some of the best-known names on Broad- 
way, and extraordinarily good food. The Cotton 

Club is open after 10 P. M. The first show goes 
on at 12.30 A. M. The second show, at 2 A. M. 
Cover charge nightly: $2.00. Saturdays and Sun- 
days: $2.50. 

Maitre d'hotel: Harry Griffin 

CONNIE'S INN . . .13 1st Street and Seventh Avenue 
If Connie's Inn hasn't exactly the class and the 
eclat of the Cotton Club, at least it makes up for 
its shortcomings in pep, speed, and a more Har- 
lemaniacal revue, in which the numbers tend to- 
ward "blueness." We like the orchestra here bet- 
ter than the hotter one at the Cotton Club. The 
clientele is all white here, too. Cover charge nightly: 
$2.00. Saturdays and Sundays: $2.50. 
Maitre d'hotel: Bill Smith 

SMALL'S PARADISE ... 136th Street and Seventh 


One of the best known Jazzeries in Harlem. This 
is the nicest of the places sometimes referred to as 
"black-and-tans," chiefly because the clientele is 
mixed. There's no cutting in, though, so nobody 
need feel at all squeamish about that. Oh, yes, the 
colored patrons are invariably better-behaved than 
the white ones, so what does anything prove. A 
dandy, scorchy floor show here, too, and a first- 
rate dance orchestra. This one opens at 10 P. M., 
too, with the first show at 12.30 and the second 
at 2.00. 

Maitre d'hotel: Jimmy Sampson 

THE LENOX CLUB . . . 143rd Street and Lenox 


This is the headquarters of Harlem's famous Jeff 
Blount, who gave New York its first Breakfast 
Dance. The breakfast dances continue here every 
Saturday night, and run right into your Sunday- 
school time Sunday morning. The clientele is 
mixed here, too, with fewer whites on hand and 
more intermixing and mingling. This, dear reader, 
is Harlem, if you know what we mean. The Lenox 
Club opens at 10 P. M., gets "good" around 4 A. M., 
and we've never stayed till closing yet! You'll find 
it very, very torrid! 

Maitre d'hotel: Gus 

THE NEST ... 169 West 133rd Street 

Harlem at its hottest! This place begins to wake 
when most other places start sweeping out for the 
night. This, too, is a black-and-tan, with no one 
caring much with whom he mingles, or why, or 
how. There is a torrid show, a first-rate dance 
orchestra, and plenty of action at all times. 
Maitre d'hotel: Dewey Vanderburgh 

THE SPIDER WEB . . . 126th Street and Seventh 


This one is run by the husband of the late Florence 
Mills, the girl who made blue singing bluer. It 
is a typical Harlem black-and-tan, sprinkled occa- 
sionally with sailors and other sea-going sports, and 
it's lots of fun. Also, it's very, very torrid, and 
when we tell you that a Harlem night club is torrid, 
need we tell you more? 

Maitre d'hotel: Sandy (U. S.) Thompson 

THE MADHOUSE ... 169 West 133rd Street 


Right over The Nest, and everything that the name 
implies. The Madhouse is alternately padlocked 
and unpadlocked, so you'll have to phone first, or 
ask anybody you meet in Harlem. Actually a 
restaurant, with a couple of auxiliary "hot" singers, 
and no dancing. But all Harlem gathers here in 
the wee small hours, for barbecued ham, pigs feet, 
and grand hot biscuits. And don't be surprised 
at anything! 

SARATOGA CLUB ... 575 Lenox Avenue 

A practical newcomer to Harlem. Owned by Cas- 
par Holstein, Harlem's number King, and gorgeous 
isn't the word for it. Here, the waiters sing as they 
bring you yours; the show is hot; the food fair; 
the orchestra grand; and the dance floor the largest 
in Harlem. 

Maitre d'hotel: Rudolph 

THE CATAGONIA CLUB ... 166 West 133rd Street 
Another of the "intimate" type of clubs, with a 
torrid pianist, an even more torrid "torch" singer, 
and a grand piano soloist, in the person of one 
Bill Smith, Harlem's only genuinely colored Jew, 
who cheerfully speaks a fluent Yiddish on no prov- 
ocation whatever. The Catagonia Club is another 
of the black-and-tans, with the accent on the 
black. The waffles and bacon are grand, the clien- 
tele colorful, and the repartee that is bantered back 
and forth is absolutely priceless. 

THE CLAM HOUSE ... 146 West 133rd Street 
Undeniably the maddest, dizziest spot in Harlem. 

The Clam House is a colored rendezvous a gath- 
ering place for the members of all the floor shows 
in the swankier Harlem clubs, who come here when 
their own places close. White people are admitted, 
but reluctantly, and you'll see some queeriosities 
without half looking. Incidentally, the bacon and 
eggs are worth the trip. Grand at about four in 
the morning. 

TILLIE'S ... 148 West 133rd Street 

The best fried chicken, sweet potato pie, and 
bacon and eggs in all New York, prepared by Tillie, 
herself, who is sure rather than swift. This is a 
rendezvous for colored Harlem, too, but white visi- 
tors, having gotten wind of Tillie's culinary prowess, 
are fast closing the natives out. For diversion, 
there's a priceless pianist, and a "hot" singer who 
knows all the original verses of "Frankie and 
Johnnie," and a few unexpurgated ones that go 
with "St. James Infirmary." You'll love this place. 
Also, after a party of four has eaten what would 
be nine dollars' worth downtown, the check is 
somewhere around two dollars and ten cents. 

TABB'S . . . 140th Street and Lenox Avenue 

Not a hide-away, a night club, or anything of the 
kind, but a restaurant and one of the very best 
in town. When you're hungry for something 
good, try the Southern fried chicken, served with 
candied yams, and watch the visiting Park Ave- 
nueites turn their backs on Emily Post and tackle 
theirs with their fingers! 

JOHNNY JACKSON'S ... 135th and Seventh Avenue 


Another rendezvous of the local bigwigs and gen- 
tlemen who are "in the money." . . . One of Har- 
lem's old standbys, and a favorite of favorites with 
the locals, who wind up here when there's abso- 
lutely no other place left for them to wind up. 
Plenty of color here, and only the smallest portion 
of it is white! 

As we told you, there are, not a thousand, but fully 
twice that many other spots. The author has tried 
many of them and has elected to leave them out of this 
book, which isn't intended to be nearly so comprehen- 
sive as selective. And just another word. In the larger 
Harlem clubs, there is no cover charge. Wily manage- 
ments get around this nicely by charging a dollar-and- 
a-half for a split of White Rock; fifty cents for an 
order of cracked ice; and by further inflicting little 
high-priced penalties on unwitting guests. And don't 
say we didn't warn you. 

Finally and if you don't mind our getting off the 
subject for a moment no chapter on Harlem could 
possibly be considered authentic or complete without 
some mention of Mr. Lee (Harlemania) Posner, and for 
good reason, too. It was Mr. Posner who brought 
Broadway north of 125th Street; who effectively, effi- 
ciently and enthusiastically, put Harlem on New York's 
amusement map; who brought big names uptown, and 
who sent entertainers with bigger names downtown; 
who so thoroughly and efficiently publicized what was 
once mere colored territory that it has become one of 
the first places to which welcoming committees, official 
and otherwise, rush assorted visitors to this fair burg. 

And it is to Mr. Lee Posner, potent press agent, genial, 

albeit unofficial guide, to whom we turn you over at 
this juncture. Mr. Posner is always to be found in 
Harlem; his name, despite the fact that he is a white 
man possibly the most popular white man in that ter- 
ritory is an open sesame to every Harlem door. And 
so we suggest that when in Harlem, and in doubt, you 
ask for him. It is a certainty that he will be there; it 
is just as much of a certainty that any waiter, proprietor, 
or newsboy north of 125th Street will know exactly 
where to find him at the moment, and it is quite in 
keeping with his reputation for thorough amiability that 
he will put himself wholly at your service. 

It is to Lee Posner, also, that the author is indebted 
for the title that heads this chapter. 



Greenwich Village begins, on the east, at Washington 
Square South. From there, it goes places in sort of a 
loose, carefree, sprawling way. Some of it finds itself 
hard by the North River on the west; most of it swirls 
around Bleecker Street and Little Italy; plenty of it un- 
winds in the immediate neighborhood of MacDougal 
Street and "West Fourth Street, and even then, there's 
enough of it left over to do Eighth Street. 

Once upon a time, the Village was a large, peaceable 
farm, hurting no one, and just managing to get its name 
into the history books. And then, quite suddenly, New 
York became American, and you'd hardly know the 
old place now. 

At one time, its oldest inhabitants will tell you, the 
Village was New York's Latin Quarter. Here, young, 
earnest artists, wide-eyed writers, and honest, serious 
thinkers lived and worked and played in a happy liter- 
ary way. Rents were low; accommodations were lower 
still, and residents went in for fireplaces, not because 
of their beauty, but by reason of their utility. Then 
there was a reason for everything, and everything was 
pretty well within reason. 

And then that changed, too. The original little group 
of earnest artists, wide-eyed writers, and honest, serious 


thinkers grew older. Either they prospered, or they 
went back to Walla Walla. Those that prospered in- 
vested in a couple of hundred dollars' worth of new 
haberdashery and moved northward. They bought 
hats, stopped carrying malacca sticks; and, with a little 
practice, eventually were able to speak whole sentences 
without once using the pronoun "I." Alas, those that 
didn't prosper, and didn't return to Walla Walla, stayed 
behind and opened imaginative Tea Shoppes and unim- 
aginative night clubs for the new Villagers, who, even 
in this enlightened age, continue to trickle in from 
far-off places, ready and raring to joust with fame, to 
duel with art, to sleep all day, and sit up all night, and, 
in short, to comport themselves as the original Villagers 
never did. 

As we said in paragraph two, you'd hardly know 
the old place now. Physically, there hasn't been much 
change. Considerable of the Village continues artistic; 
much of it continues dirty; and plenty of it continues 
neither one thing nor the other. Spiritually, the Vil- 
lage has changed completely. Now, the trickily gotten 
up Tea Shoppes are mere rat-traps for the uninitiated: 
commercial come-ons, dedicated to the gentle art of 
separating the unwary visitor from his wherewithal. 
The famed Village orgies are planned with all the skill 
of a Belasco finale, but offer none of the interest; and 
the interesting people who once frequented the better- 
known Village favorites have been supplanted by long- 
haired men and short-haired women; by fiery-eyed polit- 
icos, who'd rather rave than work; by messy maidens, 
who believe in free love, free passion and free food, 
and messier swains who live on what they can borrow, 
rather than on what they can make; by giants who 


dabble in tenth-rate water-colors, and pygmies who 
sculp; by wide-eyed little ladies from the middle-west, 
but newly arrived, who don't as yet quite know what 
to make of it all; and by pallid failures who hide their 
inabilities under the all-embracing term of Art. 

In the Village, Bohemianism covers a multitude of 
sins; gaiety is synthetic; poverty is fashionable and real; 
hilarity is forced; honor is infrequent; purpose is pie- 
eyed; ambition is asleep; and art is merely an excuse for 

Few of the original, widely known places of amuse- 
ment exist in the Village today, and fewer still of the 
new ones are worth your patronage. Nevertheless, you 
will visit the Village, more than likely, only because, 
sooner or later, everyone does. Here then, is a list of 
those places that you are likely to find most interesting, 
most noteworthy, most entertaining, and most forth- 
right. In any of the following, you will be treated with 
courtesy and consideration. Best of all, in these, you 
are not likely to be "gypped." And, just by way of 
warning, beware of what, in the vernacular, are re- 
ferred to as "steer" and "gyp" joints. Don't go any- 
where on the invitation of a street solicitor, a taxi- 
driver, or a local guide. 


3rd Street 

Greenwich Village, in capital letters. Music, danc- 
ing, and goings on. Allegedly a "hot spot." 

GREENWICH VILLAGE INN ... 5 Sheridan Square 
The Village's most beautiful restaurant and after- 
theater supper place. Described more fully else- 
where in this book. Dancing. 

THE PIRATE'S DEN ... 8 Christopher Street 

Night life, a la Captain Kidd. The most colorful, 
fairy-tale-ish place in the Village. Eat, drink, 
dance and be merry, in an atmosphere of brigands, 
buccaneers and charming deep-sea, treasure-island 

Maitre d'hotel: Hunter 

THE FOUR TREES ... 1 Sheridan Square 

Open every evening except Sunday. Good food, 
good informal fun, and not expensive. Dancing, of 

THE COUNTY FAIR ... 54 East 9th Street 

Don Dickerman, of Pirate's Den fame, gone rustic 
this time. Good, clean Dickermanian fun; good 
dance music; and plenty of room to park. 
Maitre d'hotel: Charley 

BARNEY GALLANT'S ... 85 West 3rd Street 

A typical Broadway night club, catering particu- 
larly to Broadway people who like to travel. The 
peppiest spot in the Village, with an ample cover 
charge and lots of celebrities from the Times Square 
district, who don't mind paying it. Dancing, and 
grand entertainment. 

THE BLUE HORSE ... 21 East 8th Street 

You sit in stalls, and the orchestra wears blinders. 
The Blue Horse clientele runs to the collegiate, and 
is lots of good, clean fun. Don Dickerman did 
this one, too. 

Maitre d'hotel: Miss Baker 

THE OPEN DOOR ... 135 MacDougal Street 

An old-timer, celebrated for its food, its fun, and 
the exuberance of its clientele. Dancing. Prices 
are reasonable. 

THE DAFFYDIL ... 42 West 8th Street 

Not nearly as daffy as most of them. Owned jointly 
by Don Dickerman and Rudy Vallee. Good music; 
good fun; and a good many celebrities on hand 
at all times. Reasonable. 

THE NUT CLUB ... 99 Seventh Avenue 

Exactly what the name implies! The Ace Asylum 
of them all. The best, rowdiest, funniest and 
craziest spot east of Matteawan, and a riot on 
broadcast nights (Monday, Thursday and Satur- 
day). And you'd better phone Spring 9139 for 
reservations. Good music; good food; and good 
heavens! What more could anybody want? 
Maitre d'hotel: Jimmy 

GYPSY TAVERN ... 64 Washington Square South 
Run by the Village's "Puck," otherwise known as 
Mrs. Will Durant. Spasmodic entertainment, and 
you're like as not to find Will Durant, John Cow- 
per Powys and many other literary lights here, 
night after night. You can dance if you have to, 
but there are no genuine facilities for it. 

THE PEPPER POT ... 146 West 4th Street 

We told you about this one elsewhere. In the 
evening, there's plenty of room to dance, and plenty 
of incentive for it, too, when the Pepper Potters 
get going. 


And there you have the high spots of the Village. In 
the squirmy, twisty avenues and streets that go to make 
up this heterogeneous collection of art and atmosphere 
there are, of course, dozens of places that we haven't 
listed. There are a number of reasons for this. Some 
of them aren't fun at all. Some of them are strictly 
"gyp" places. And the big majority of them simply 
don't deserve a listing on any count at all. A few of 
the better ones that specialize in nothing in particular 
and everything in general have been added for your 
convenience. To wit: 


YE PIG'N WHISTLE, 175 West 4th Street . . . THE 
JOLLY FRIARS, 163 West 4th Street . . . THE 
BAMBOO FOREST, 127 MacDougal Street (described 
elsewhere) . . . THE VILLAGE GROVE, 72 Grove 
Street ... EL CHICO'S, 80 Grove Street (described 
elsewhere) . . . THE RICHELIEU, 13th Street and 
5th Avenue . . . BERTOLOTTI'S, 21 West 9th Street 
. . . BERGONZI'S, 38 MacDougal Street . . . THE 
GREEN WITCH, 63 East llth Street . . . THE 
CRICKET, 27 University Place . . . MORI'S, 144 
Bleecker (described elsewhere) . . . ENRICO AND 
PAGLIERI, 66 West llth Street . . . GOLDEN 
EAGLE, 62 West 9th Street . . . THE VILLAGE 
MOON, 4 Barrow Street . . . THE HEARTHSTONE 
INN, 4 Jones Street . . . THE BLACK CAT, 557 
West Broadway ... and P. GALOTTI, 64 West 10th 



One of the unusual features of New York is that the 
brownstone front of today is the garment center capital 
of tomorrow. The foregoing restaurants were there, 
and open and active and alive when the author visited 
them. But institutions that are here one day are gone 
the next, and we can only advise that, on planning to 
visit any one of them, you telephone first. 



When you have wearied of the Village and its particular 
brand of roughhouse; when you are fed up on Broad- 
way, and cover charges, and clothesless chorines; when 
it has developed that Harlem is bad for your blood 
pressure, and you have not the patience to stay home, 
buck up! There's always Yorkville. 

Yorkville is the Unter den Linden of Manhattan; the 
Friedrichstrasse of New York; the epitome of German 
high life as it's offered you in America. Once, York- 
ville was a quiet German colony, with German theaters, 
an occasional beer garden or two, an epidemic of deli- 
catessen stores, pork stores and bird stores active by 
day, and wholly out of it by night. Peaceful, placid 
people lived there and worked there and enjoyed life. 
And then, as the movie screen has it, came MaxPs. We've 
already told you about Maxl's, elsewhere in this book, 
and Heaven knows there's no use in going into all that 

As a matter of fact, if it had been Maxl's only, there'd 
have been no necessity for even bothering with this 
chapter. Yorkville would have gone along happily, 
peacefully, being fat, and florid and selling its delica- 
tessen and its pork and its birds. But Maxl's was really 
only the forerunner of what has since assumed the pro- 
portions of an epidemic! 


In short, MaxPs now is merely a figure of speech, 
used to identify fully fifty other emporiums on the 
street it suits this writer to call Brau Haus Boulevard. 
All Yorkville has gone Brau Haus. "Schnitzlebank" 
has become 86th Street's theme song; and otherwise blase* 
New York, willing to try anything once, pours into 
86th Street nightly, and learns at first hand, what a 
Brau Haus is all about. 

A Brau Haus (86th Street version) is a place in which 
all the waiters wear short, corduroy pants, Alpine hats, 
socks that cover only the calves of their legs, and funny 
suspenders. These gentlemen are engaged (1) because 
they have grand German accents; (2) because, even if 
they can't sing, at least they know all the words to the 
popular old-school German Braustuberl ditties; and (3) 
because they have learned to transport successfully six- 
teen steins of beer in one hand, while they write out 
and incorrectly add a patron's check with the other! 

All Brau Hauses are alike as two Fords; all Brau 
Hauses are noisy (only some are noisier than others) ; 
all Brau Hauses serve long, sleek frankfurters with 
sauerkraut, Westphalia ham sandwiches, and salty pret- 
zels^ these, served with your beer, constitute a sly com- 
mercial gesture, the point being that they make you 
thirsty, thus inspiring you to order more beer, which, 
imbibed along with more salty pretzels, in no way slakes 
your thirst. Also, all Brau Hauses invite their cus- 
tomers to join in the fun, the singing and the general 
rough-house, which makes it easier for the professional 
entertainers, and at the same time, makes the customers 
believe that they're having a really swell time. The 
interior of all Brau Hauses is redolent with purely decora- 
tive steins, fake cottage windows, and wooden tables and 


chairs, and the chief excitement is the three-or-four- 
piece stringed orchestra which plays when it isn't drink- 
ing up the profits, and rarely plays when, or what, you 
want them to. 

This, then, is a composite picture of all the Brau 
Hauses in the world (and on East 86th Street, which 
is the same thing). Consequently, there isn't a bit of 
use in our going off and describing each one to you. 
Anybody could do that. Hence, we have simply under- 
taken to list the outstanding ones, together with their 
addresses, thereby letting you use your own judgment. 
We'll only help you out one teeny-weeny little bit by 
telling you that Maxl's, the Platzl, and the Old Munchen 
are the best known. From here on, it's up to you. All 
right, then, Yorkville is that section or rather the 
Brau Haus part of Yorkville is that section of East 
86th Street between Lexington and Third Avenues 
and that's all the help you'll get from us, too! 

MAXL'S BRAUSTUBERL (described elsewhere in this 
book) . . . RESTAURANT PLATZL, 229 East 86th 
Street . . . OLD MUNCHEN, 247 East 86th Street 
. . . EMIL'S ROOF GARDEN, 164 East 86th Street, 
up five generous flights of stairs but when you reach 
your destination, you're on a nice, open roof, which is 
pretty romantic, and cool in summer. Oh, yes, and 
there isn't any elevator, either. 

THE OFFICE TAVERN, 1439 Third Avenue . . . 
CORSO'S, 205 East 86th Street ... and then there's 
that one that somehow or other managed to slip down 
off of 86th Street to 49th Street (165 West) and which 
belongs under the general head of Brau Hauses, too. 


(We described the Gartenhaus elsewhere in this book.) 
There are about five hundred others, but there's no use 
listing them, because, like night clubs, they're here to- 
day, and Heaven knows where tomorrow. Besides, you 
literally trip over dozens of them, the moment you set 
foot in Yorkville! 



Being a brief oh, a very brief little record of what's 
^vhat in Suburbia, with absolutely no single sug- 
gestion as to how to get there. This chapter is 
planned for patient readers who own, or can rent, 
a motor car, and who don't mind sitting in traffic 
and boiling in summer, freezing in winter, and not 
moving very quickly, regardless of the season. 


Yonkers begins up north, where New York City 
proper leaves off. Well, Westchester begins where 
Yonkers leaves off. 

ARROWHEAD INN . . . Riverdale Avenue and 
246th Street. Anyway, it's on the way to Westchester. 
. . . This sublimated ballroom of Ben Riley's is as big 
as all outdoors, and just as delightful. Dancing under 
the stars in fine weather, and when there are any. De- 
lightful music; even more delightful food; and a cheer- 
ful, friendly, country-club atmosphere. As for getting 
there, we guess you'll just have to ask a policeman! 

NIKKO INN . . . Harmon - on - Hudson . . . 
"Nikko" in Japanese, they tell us, means "secret." But 


there is nothing secret about this place, which is one of 
the most popular on the road. But it is Japanese, both 
as to architecture and landscaping, and if trickier places 
are built, we have yet to see them. The Nikko Inn is 
charming, and no end romantic. 

LONGVUE . . . Immediately north of Yonkers 
(we just told you about Yonkers) ... a sort of Ar- 
menonville of America . . . old, stately, and continen- 
tal, and atop a veritable mountain, as if all the rest 
weren't enough. A charming, fairly exclusive place, 
catering to exactly the right kind of people. 

LAWRENCE'S . . . Boston Post Road ... The 
best shore dinner in Westchester . . . the clientele is 
chiefly local (suburbanites whose cooks simply will have 
their day off) ... and the place is invariably jammed 
. . . and has been, for years and years. This is a favo- 
rite with those people who care more for a good dinner 
(which Lawrence serves) than a good orchestra (which 
Lawrence seldom has). 

POST LODGE . . . Boston Post Road ... a mile 
or so this side of Lawrence's, if that helps you any! . . . 
A favorite with many notables, including Mayor Walker. 
Good food, good service, and good music, and a fairly 
alert clientele. 

THE PICKWICK INN . . . Greenwich, Connecti- 
cut . . . the first resort of honeymooners, who have 
the ceremony performed here . . . picturesque, old and 
aristocratic, and the food is incomparable. 


THE WHITE SWAN INN . . . White Plains . . . 
no music ... no entertainment . . . but the best 
home-cooked food in all Westchester, and the White 
Swan Inn is always jammed for that reason. 

THE OPEN DOOR INN . . . Westport, Connecti- 
cut . . . Charming atmosphere . . . and delightful, 
homey fare that brings patrons from miles around. A 
perfectly delightful spot when you're weary of Mammy 
singers, cornets with derbies on them, wiggling chorines, 
and night life in general. 

Plains . . . (Central Avenue) . . . everything fresh 
from the earth, and in season. Too, all the motoring 
world gathers here, parking eighteen abreast. (Maybe 
it only seems that all the world gathers here.) 

CANDLELIGHT INN . . . Bronxville, N. Y. . . . 
(69 Pondfield Road) . . . Marvelous chicken and waf- 
fle dinners but marvelous . . . charming, restful, and 
not tea-roomy, either, which is something. 

THE LOG CABIN . . . Bronx River Road (near 
the White Plains outlet) . . . Take this lovely drive 
up along New York's beautiful, New York's only beau- 
tiful, suburban boulevard. The Log Cabin is tricky, 
cozy, and cheerfully gotten up, what with open fire- 
places, candlelight, and a jazz band that knows its tempo. 
Good food, and not terribly expensive. And you'd bet- 
ter come prepared to dance. 

Parkway . . . Once the home of the California Ram- 


biers . . . now the suburban villa of the gentlemen 
who own Broadway's Hollywood Restaurant ... a 
veritable modern amphitheater, seating thirty-two hun- 
dred guests, beguiling them with two jazz orchestras 
and a forty-person girl-show, and assessing them no 
cover charge, what's more. N. T. Granlund doubles 
between the Hollywood in town and here. Grand for 
luncheon, tea, dinner, or later, and crowded at all times. 

WOODMANSTEN INN . . . Pelham Road . . . 
Delightful music; and a delightful atmosphere in which 
to dance ... a slightly higher-hat clientele than the 
usual road-house commands, and exceptionally good, ex- 
pensive food. 

And then, in the Pelham Parkway section, there's 
Pelham Heath Inn, Pelham Manor, The Chateau Lau- 
rier, Hunter Island Inn, the Castilian Royal and this 
is really only scratching the surface! 


Astoria, and that traffic maze which they elect to call 
Bridge Plaza, begins where Manhattan leaves off on 
the west. Well, Long Island begins where the Bridge 
Plaza leaves off. And don't judge Long Island harshly 
by the first seven miles, which are pretty terrible. 

GARDEN CITY HOTEL . . . Garden City, Long 
Island ... a garden spot on a strand that is full of 
them ... a combination country-club and roadhouse 
. . . and you can stay over night if you choose . . . 


(On a Sunday night, in summer, this is smarter than 
attempting to negotiate Queensboro Bridge) . . . Golf 
courses all around . . . near race tracks and flying fields 
. . . dinner dances Thursdays and Saturdays . . . and 
the de luxe dinners are grand. 

PAVILLON ROYAL . . . Merrick Road, Valley 
Stream . . . and not Pavill-ion . . . another of the 
famous John and Christo's places, which means the best 
food obtainable, careful service, and invariably one of 
the smartest orchestras available. Clientele, the swankier 
Long Island set. 

HANDEL'S DUCK INN . . . Merrick Road, Val- 
ley Stream ... a marvelous duck, or chicken, dinner 
. . . good music, and one of the easiest locations in all 
Long Island to reach. 

BRADLEY'S . . . Port Washington ... an old- 
timer . . . Tavern-ey, if you know what we mean, 
with little thought to decoration, and all energy bent to 
turning out a marvelous shore dinner, which Bradley 's 
does, and an expensive one, too ($3.50). Clientele, 
mostly locals who have been eating at John Bradley's 
for years. Also, a charming view of the Sound, and 
nice, hungry, business-like neighbors. 

HALL'S INN . . . Centreport, Long Island . . . 
one of the most delightful places on the entire Island 
. . . cool, comfortable and charming, with the kind of 
food that you seldom find anywhere, and never find in 
a roadhouse . . . good music; plenty of room to enjoy 
it; and you'll find Archie Hall, the proprietor, just about 


the most genial host you've ever met. Centreport is a 
nice, cool, fifty-mile drive over splendid roads. 

WARD'S REST INN . . . Centreport, Long Island 
. . . Near Hall's . . . another old-timer, serving grand 
shore dinners, and catering to a clientele that is more 
particular about what it eats than it is about the swank 
of the place in which it eats it! 

PANCHARD'S . . . Massapequa, Long Island . . . 
Chicken, lobster and duck dinners; and good, too. Also, 
good dance music, a satisfactory floor on which to dance 
and odds bodkins! The cuisine appears to be all impor- 
tant here and it is! Not too expensive. 

JOE SMALL WOOD'S . . . Glen Cove, Long Island 
. . . The Central Park Casino of Long Island . . . 
which means that it is exclusive, expensive and brim full 
of the younger, more local Four Hundred who make 
it their rendezvous. And you'll feel better if you dress. 

THE PETIT TRIANON . . . Lake Ronkonkoma 
. . . At the end of the Motor Parkway. A grand fifty- 
mile straightaway out over this private speedway, which 
means no crossroads to get lost at ... Marvelous steaks 
and wholly French cuisine . . . and the Lake Ronkon- 
koma basket parties are all gone by evening. Expensive, 
and don't think that it isn't. 

Of course, there are others on Long Island. The fore- 
going we have tried and found nothing wanting. And 
besides, even an author unless he's compiling another 
telephone book has to stop somewhere. 



To the south, Brooklyn begins where Manhattan stops. 
Well, Coney Island begins where Brooklyn stops! And 
Sheepshead Bay lies somewhere in between, trying hard 
not to look too much like one, or yet, the other. 

FELTMAN'S . . . Coney Island (opposite Luna 
Park) ... a dozen differently appointed rooms, from 
German, to Hanging Gardens, to Bavarian . . . and 
you can't get better food anywhere in all America, than 
you can get right here. Marvelous shore dinners, and 
if prices seem a little high, remember that the quality 
of the food that's served here simply couldn't be any 

VILLEPIGUES . . . Sheepshead Bay ... (better 
ask a policeman here, too) . . . Famous for years for 
its shore dinners and the fact that its patrons are as 
recurrent as the summer itself. And so crowded, gen- 
erally, that you'd better make your reservations in ad- 

BEAU RIVAGE . . . Sheepshead Bay ... undeni- 
ably, the most charming rendezvous on this end of the 
Island . . . located on the water's edge, you can dance 
out on a boat deck under the moon (when there is a 
moon) and cool off, no matter how hot it is elsewhere. 
The shore dinners are a delight, and reasonable; the 
southern chicken dinners are prepared by a specially 
imported negro mammy, and Mr. Popper, the proprie- 
tor, is an ace among genial hosts. Dave Meadows and 
his orchestra have played here for season after season, 
and we've never danced to a better! 


LUNDY'S . . . Sheepshead Bay ... the best as- 
sorted sea-food in these parts, served a few hours after 
it's caught . . . and literally crowds of people so busy 
enjoying Lundy's lobsters and corn on the cob, that they 
don't even notice that there's no orchestra and no 
dancing. Colored waiters here, and good ones, too! 

TAPPEN'S . . . Sheepshead Bay ... Famous for 
its food for years. Shore dinners a specialty. And 
don't think of getting here a single minute after nine 
o'clock of an evening, because that's the hour when 
service stops and when service stops at Tappen's, it 

SLOANE'S . . . Sheepshead Bay ... a peppy floor 
show with your dinner, and plenty of incentive for 
dancing after it ... good shore dinners . . . good 
southern dinners, and good and inexpensive! 

Of course, there are a host of others, in this direction, 
too, and if we've neglected anybody that is, anybody 
we didn't set out purposely to neglect we're sorry, and 
we as good as apologize right now. 



And What to Do About Them 

A cover charge (we told you pretty nearly everything 
there was to tell about a cover charge up forward in the 
chapter on night clubs) is the equivalent of the admis- 
sion you pay when you go to theater. With some few 
exceptions, those places assessing you a cover charge now 
give you, in return for your investment, a more or less 
elaborate revue, show, or round of entertainment. Your 
cover charge is your contribution to the upkeep of this 
form of amusement. It covers nothing else and entitles 
you to nothing but the privilege of looking on. 

The minimum food charge was a brilliant restaura- 
teur's answer to the increasingly large number of com- 
plaints about the cover charge. (Why people should 
complain about a cover charge when there is a show or 
considerable entertainment that they'd have to pay even 
more money to see in a theater, is one of those unanswer- 
ables, such as which came first, the chicken or the egg, 
and how high is up.) 

The minimum food charge, then, was this restaura- 
teur's answer to those complaints. It means that for 


this charge you are entitled to eat the charge's weight 
in food; to wit: if the minimum food charge is two 
dollars and a half, it means that you are entitled to eat 
two-dollars-and-a-half's worth. And you'd better, too, 
because you're going to be charged that whether you 
eat it or not. Don't say we didn't tell you. 

Another practice in vogue, in a good many of the 
after-theater places which make neither a cover charge 
nor a food charge, is assessing a victim anything from 
half a dollar to two dollars for such essentials as cracked 
ice, White Rock, and Ginger Ale. So you'd better look 
before you leap. 



Wherein the Author Gets in Wrong With a Few Million 

Expectant Waiters, Head-Waiters, Door-Men, 

Hat-Check Girls, and Other Tippees 

Most people overtip, chiefly because they are horribly 
afraid to undertip. This makes working in a night club 
or a restaurant a nice racket. The author, having paid 
a total of one hundred and seventy-four dollars over 
a period of one year to redeem a hat whose original cost 
was three dollars and a half, feels that he's had some 
little experience in this direction. Besides, he's inclined 
to be pretty fearless anyway. And so, to get to the 

A ten percent tip on a check of one dollar and a half 
or less, during the noon hour, is ample. For some reason, 
noon hour or no noon hour, ten percent on a check that 
totals more than that isn't sufficient. And don't ask 
us why, because we don't know. It just isn't. 

When your check totals between one-fifty and two- 
fifty, a quarter is about the correct pourboire. Above 
that, you'd better begin thinking in terms of fifteen 
percent, if you don't want ice-water spilled down your 
neck or bread crumbs brushed into your lap. 

But, and here's where things get more and more com- 
plex, when your check is above five dollars even fifteen 


percent isn't enough. You don't dare to tip less than 
a dollar! (Maybe you do dare, but you'll learn!) Above 
five dollars you should tip at least twenty percent, so 
you can see how things are! 

In a restaurant, these are the attendants who will 
expect tips: 

The Headwaiter 

The Captain 

The Waiter 

The Cigaret Girl, if you buy any cigarets 

The Hat-Check Girl. 

But, unless you're a regular patron in a restaurant, 
you are perfectly within your rights in completely ignor- 
ing both headwaiter and captain, unless you're planning 
a special dinner party, in which event, both of these 
gentlemen should be tipped in advance and well. 
(About five dollars would be considered "well.") 

If you buy cigarets (in a restaurant) you will be 
charged about half again as much as they charge in a 
cigar store for them; but despite that, the cigaret girl 
will expect at least a quarter. A dime is enough. In a 
night club, however, she will expect anything from a 
dollar up, depending upon how blonde and beautiful 
she is. Here, a quarter is ample. 

In a restaurant, you needn't tip the hat-check girl as 
much as a quarter; but in a night club, you wouldn't 
dare to tip her any less. 

And finally, remember that you are expected to tip 
for any and all extra service (and in a night club, any 
kind of service at all is considered extra) and no matter 
how much you tip, it won't be considered enough. Oh, 


dear, oh, dear, it's beginning to look as though we might 
just as well have left this chapter out entirely! 

Once you gain the street again, the doorman will ex- 
pect a tip (and nothing short of a quarter either) for 
opening the taxi door for you. If you don't mind having 
him slam the door after you, you can ignore him. How- 
ever, if you're jumpy, maybe you'd better come across. 

And just one more little caution. The taxi that a 
night club doorman hails for you, is likely to be a "gyp," 
or "high-rate" cab. It will cost you a dime more per 
mile, if it holds together that long. Consequently, walk 
a few doors away from the club entrance before you 
hail a cab, if you want a low rate. Inasmuch as the 
service is the same, why, we want to know, shouldn't 
you want a low rate? And that's about all that we can 
think of! 



(See page 262 for complete alphabetical list of restaurants) 


American .... 23, 28, 58, 
95, 97, 103, 105, 111, 114, 
129, 130, 138, 155, 160, 
168, 170, 180, 181, 188, 203, 

American (Early) .... 168, 

Armenian .... 82, 84 

Chinese .... 37, 85 

Dutch .... 165 

English .... 35, 90, 151, 
185, 197 

Franco- American .... 21 

Franco-Hungarian .... 144 

Franco-Italian .... 52 

Franco-Swiss .... 67 

French .... 26, 39, 41, 45, 
88, 100, 116, 121, 123, 131, 
134, 135, 137, 140, 146, 187, 
192, 200, 207, 209 

German .... 54, 71, 119, 
153, 172 

German- American .... 56, 

German-Jewish .... 183 

Greek .... 199 

Hawaiian .... 98 

Hungarian .... 125, 144 

Irish . . 148, 174 

Italian .... 33, 43, 73, 80, 109, 

196, 205 
60, Italian-American .... 18 

127, Japanese .... 62, 64 

162, Jewish .... 166, 183 

211 Jewish (Kosher) .... 107 

170, Mexican .... 112 

Roumanian .... 30, 157, 194 
Russian .... 75, 86, 93, 142 
Spanish .... 50 
Swedish .... 47, 70, 92 

176, Swiss .... 67 

Turkish (Parsee) .... 65 


Broadway, and thereabouts .... 

77, 18, 21, 35, 43, 54, 56, 58, 60, 

133, 65, 71, 73, 77, 80, 90, 97, 103, 

190, 112, 121, 146, 151, 155, 162, 172, 

174, 176, 214, 215, 216, 217, 

150, 222, 223, 224, 225, 226 

Park Avenue .... 100, 131, 133, 
172, 134, 215, 218 

Upper East Side (above 42nd Street) 
.... 26, 28, 45, 70, 95, 123, 
137, 142, 144, 183, 185, 187, 
192, 200, 209, 214, 215, 217, 
218, 223, 224, 226 
Upper West Side (above 42nd 


LOCALITY (Continued) 

Street) .... 26, 28, 47, 52, 
62, 64, 67, 73, 75, 88, 92, 105, 
114, 135, 138, 142, 146, 155, 176, 
185, 188, 190, 207. 209, 214, 
215, 216, 218, 222, 223, 224, 226 

Lower East Side (below 42nd 
Street) .... 26, 30, 39, 41, 86, 
93, 98, 150, 157, 160, 166, 177, 
215, 226 

Lower West Side (below 42nd 
Street) .... 33, 79, 82, 84, 
85, 107, 116, 148, 160, 172, 176, 
199, 205, 214, 216, 218 

Harlem .... 125, 216, 229, 230, 
231, 232, 233 

Greenwich Village .... 23, 26, 
33, 37, 39,41, 50, 109, 111, 140, 
181, 194, 196, 197, 203, 205, 238, 
239, 240, 241 

Yorkville .... 119, 153,214,216, 

Lower New York . . . . 127, 129, 
130, 155, 160, 165, 168, 170, 180, 
214, 215 

Brooklyn .... 211, 218, 219, 226 

Suburbia, and beyond .... Coney 
Island, 253, 254 .... Long 
Island, 250, 251, 252 .... 
Westchester, 247, 248, 249, 250 

TABLE D'HOTES .... 18, 23, 
39, 41, 47, 50, 56, 62, 65, 67, 70, 
73, 75, 77, 80, 82, 84, 88, 92, 103, 
105, 107, 112, 114, 116, 140, 142, 
144, 146, 155, 162, 172, 181, 185, 
188, 197, 203, 217 

WITH DANCING .... 18, 23, 
30, 47, 50, 75, 77, 86, 93, 95, 
103, 125, 155, 157, 162, 172, 
181, 192, 200, 217, 218, 219, 


222, 223, 224, 225, 226, 229, 

230, 231, 232, 233, 238, 239, 

240, 247, 248, 249, 250, 251, 
252, 253, 254 

54, 75,77, 86, 93, 103, 119, 142, 
157, 172, 217, 222, 223, 224, 
225, 226, 229, 230, 231, 232, 233, 
239, 240, 254 


Algonquin Hotel .' . . . 21 

Alice Foote Macdougall .... 155 

Alice McCollister's .... 197 

Alps .... 88 

Ambassador Hotel .... 218 

American-Hungarian Restaurant 

.... 216 

Arena Restaurant .... 2 1 5 
Arrowhead Inn .... 247 
Artists and Models . ... 216 
As You Like it Coffee House .... 


Astor Hotel .... 162, 226 
Athena Restaurant .... 199 
Au Grand Vatel .... 215 
Bamboo Forest .... 37, 241 
Barbetta's .... 43 
Barney Gallant's .... 239 
Beau Rivage .... 253 
Beaux Arts .... 77 
Beefsteak Charlie's .... 58 
Beem Nom Low . ... 216 
Berger's Restaurant .... 215 
Bergonzi's . . . . 241 
Bertolotti's .... 241 
Better 'Ole .... 185 
Beverly Divan .... 123 
Billy the Oysterman .... 138 
Biltmore Cascades . . . . 218, 226 
Black Cat . .241 

RESTAURANTS (Continued) 

Blue Horse .... 239 

Blue Ribbon .... 71 

Bosporus .... 82 

Bossert Hotel .... 218, 226 

Bradley's .... 251 

Brass Rail .... 215 

Brevoort .... 39 

Broad's Chop House .... Ill 

Cafe Royal .... 166 

Cafe Savarin .... 160 

Candlelight Inn .... 249 

Carteret Restaurant . ... 216 

Caruso Spaghetti Place .... 215 

Castilian Royal .... 250 

Catagonia Club .... 232 

Cavanagh's .... 148 

Caviar .... 207 

Central Park Casino .... 192, 


Cesar's . . . . 80 
Chaffard's .... 116 
Chalet Suisse .... 67 
Charles .... 140 
Chateau Laurier .... 250 
Chateau Madrid .... 223 
Chez Lina .... 215 
Chez Maurice .... 215 
Chico's .... 50, 241 
Chili Villa .... 112 
Chinese Delmonico's .... 85 
Chumley, Lee .... 203 
Clam House .... 232 
Claremont Inn .... 135 
Club Abbey .... 225 
Club Argonaut .... 222 
Club Calais .... 226 
Club El Patio .... 224 
Club Lido .... 222 
Club Montmartre .... 224 
Club Richman .... 222 
College Inn .... 214 

Colony Restaurant .... 187 

Commodore Grill .... 218, 226 

Connie's Inn .... 230 

Constantinople .... 84 

Conte's .... 196 

Corso's .... 245 

Cotton Club .... 229 

County Fair .... 239 

Cricket .... 241 

Crillon .... 215 

Daffydil .... 240 

Daruma .... 64 

Del Pezzo .... 216 

Dinty Moore's .... 174 

Divan Parisien .... 123 

Dixie Kitchen .... 215 

El Rancho .... 214 

Ellen Johnson .... 214 

Emil's Roof Garden .... 245 

Enrico and Paglieri .... 241 

Everglades . . . . 217, 225 

Farrish's Chop House .... 168 

Fay's Oyster and Chop House .... 


Feltman's .... 253 
Fifth Avenue Restaurant .... 2 1 6 
Firenze .... 155 
Fornos .... 214 
Four Trees .... 239 
Franziskaner .... 216 
Fraunces' Tavern .... 170 
Gage and Tollner's .... 211 

Galotti, P 241 

Gansemayer .... 183 

Garden City Hotel .... 250 

Gerson's .... 215 

Giolito's Venetian Garden .... 


Girard .... 214 
Glantz .... 216 
Golden Eagle .... 241 
Governor Clinton Hotel .... 218 


RESTAURANTS (Continued) 

Grand Central Terminal Oyster 

Bar .... 217 
Greenwich Village Inn .... 23, 


Greenwich Village Mill .... 238 
Green Witch .... 241 
Guffanti's .... 216 
Gypsy Camp .... 125 
Gypsy Tavern .... 240 
Gypsy Tea Shop .... 215 
Haan's .... 129 
Hall's Inn .... 251 
Handel's Duck Inn .... 251 
Hawaiian Tea House .... 98 
Hearthstone Inn .... 241 
Henri's .... 121 
Henry's .... 214 
Hofbrau Haus .... 172 
Hollywood Gardens .... 249 
Hollywood Restaurant .... 217, 


Home Hungarian .... 214 
Hotel Algonquin .... 21 
Hotel Ambassador .... 218 
Hotel Astor .... 162 
Hotel Biltmore .... 218, 226 
Hotel Bossert .... 218, 226 
Hotel Brevoort .... 39 
Hotel Commodore .... 218, 226 
Hotel Governor Clinton 


Hotel Lafayette .... 41 
Hotel McAlpin .... 218, 226 
Hotel New Yorker .... 226 
Hotel Paramount .... 217, 226 
Hotel Park Central 218, 

Hotel Pennsylvania 218, 

Hotel Ritz-Carlton 200, 


Hotel Roosevelt .... 95, 226 
Hotel St. George .... 219, 226 
Hotel St. Regis Seaglades .... 


Hunter Island Inn .... 250 
Jack and Jill's Chop House .... 

Janssen's Midtown Hofbrau .... 

172, 217 

Joe Small wood's .... 252 
Johnny Jackson's . . . . 233 
Johnson, Ellen .... 214 
Jolly Friars .... 241 
Karoly's .... 144 
Keen's Chop House .... 176 
Kennedy's .... 97 
La Rue .... 100 
Lafayette .... 41 
L'Aiglon .... 137 
Latin Restaurant .... 215 
Lawrence's .... 248 
Le Bourget Restaurant .... 216 
Lee Chumley's .... 203 
Lenox Club .... 230 
Lobster .... 60 
Log Cabin .... 188 
Log Cabin (Westchester) .... 


Longchamps .... 26 
Longvue .... 248 
Lorange . ... 214 
Lorber's .... 56 
Luchow's .... 150 
Luigi .... 205 
Luigino's .... 215 
Lundy's .... 254 
McAlpin Hotel .... 218, 226 
McCollister, Alice .... 197 
Macdougall, Alice Foote .... 


Madhouse .... 231 
Maison A. De Winter .... 146 
Maison Jacques .... 216 


RESTAURANTS (Continued) 

Maison Lafitte .... 216 

Maison Louis .... 190 

Manny's . ... 177 

Marguery .... 131 

Maxl's Braustiiberl .... 119, 245 

May-November Farms .... 249 

Milbrook's Restaurant .... 215 

Mirliton .... 45 

Miyako .... 62 

Moneta's .... 33 

Mori's .... 109, 241 

Nest .... 231 

New Yorker Hotel .... 226 

Nikko Inn .... 247 

Nut Club .... 240 

Office Tavern .... 245 

Old Miinchen .... 245 

Open Door .... 240 

Open Door Inn .... 249 

Oriental .... 214 

Original Moscowitz Roumanian 

Restaurant .... 157 
Panchard's .... 252 
Paramount Grill .... 217, 226 
Parisien .... 52 
Park Central Hotel .... 218, 226 
Pavilion Royal .... 251 
Pelham Heath Inn .... 250 
Pelham Manor .... 250 
Pepper Pot .... 181, 240 
Pennsylvania Hotel . . . . 218, 226 
Perlman's Roumanian Rathskeller 

.... 30 

Petit Trianon .... 252 
Phoenix .... 92 
Pickwick Inn .... 248 
Pierre's .... 134 
Pirate's Den .... 239 
Post Lodge .... 248 
Quan's .... 214 
Rajah .... 65 

Restaurant La Rue .... 100 
Restaurant Platzl .... 245 
Reuben's .... 28 
Richelieu Restaurant .... 215, 


Ritz-Carlton .... 200, 217 
Robert's .... 209 
Rolfe's .... 130 
Romany Marie .... 194 
Roosevelt Grill .... 95, 226 
Roth's Grill .... 216 
Russian Art Restaurant .... 86, 


Russian Kretchma .... 93, 226 
Russian Sadko .... 75, 226 
Russian Tea Room .... 214 
St. George Hotel . . . . 219, 226 
St. Regis Hotel .... 218 
Salon Royal .... 223 
Samarkand .... 142 
Saratoga Club .... 232 
Sardi's .... 18 
Scandinavian Arms .... 214 
Sea Cove Restaurant .... 217 
Seaglades .... 224 
Sherry's .... 133 
Ship Ahoy Chop House .... 105 
Silver Slipper .... 224 
Sloane's .... 254 
Small's Paradise .... 230 
Smallwood, Joe .... 252 
Spider Web .... 231 
Suesskind's .... 153 
Swedish Inn .... 70 
Tabb's .... 233 
Tappen's .... 254 
Tavern Restaurant .... 35 
Tillie's .... 233 
Tokiwa .... 214 
Trotzky's .... 107 
Vanity Fair .... 215 
Villa Vallee .... 223 
Village Grove .... 241 


RESTAURANTS (Continued) Wivel .... 47 

Woodmansten Inn .... 250 

Village Moon .... 241 Ye Olde Chop House .... 180 

Villepigues .... 253 Ye Olde Dutch Tavern .... 165 

Voisin .... 215 Ye Olde English Tea Room 
Ward's Rest Inn .... 252 90 

White Swan Inn .... 249 Ye Pig'n Whistle .... 241 

Whyte's .... 128 Ye White Horse Inn .... 151 

Will Oakland's Terrace .... 103, Yoshida Tea Room .... 114 

225 Zucca's .... 216 

Willard's . .127 Zum Gartenhaus . . 54 





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